


Worth the Trouble

by Cleminem



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (2012), War Horse (2011)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleminem/pseuds/Cleminem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're in a content two-year relationship with your boyfriend Logan, and one Mister Benedict Cumberbatch is your long-term best friend. Ben and Logan don't like each other, and Ben loves to introduce you to other men in hopes that you'll take the bait and leave your jealous man for good. You're very good at turning down the men Ben brings forth, but how do you say no to the devilishly handsome Tom Hiddleston?<br/>Eventually it will get very, very smutty; all good things come in time. So be patient and bear with me. Leave comments and whatnot if you're so inclined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’re typing madly away at the keyboard beneath your fingers and your cell rings, snapping you from your focus. Sighing, you look at the caller ID and reluctantly answer. Before you can even utter a sound, the rich baritone voice molded into a perfect British accent begins pleading with you.  
“Please, Prudence! I really need you on my arm tonight—no one else will go with me.”  
You try to rub the furrow between your eyebrows away, “As nice as it is to be your last resort, I can’t go. I told you already that I have too much to do.”  
“You were my first choice, and you know it! Anything that you have to do can be set aside for a few hours. Please, Pru?” he begs.  
You roll your eyes skyward and groan. He must really want you there to call you by that name—the nickname that only he is allowed to call you. Not even Logan, your boyfriend of two years, calls you Pru. No, it’s a privilege reserved solely for your best friend.  
“Ben,” you whine, “I have so much to do. Please don’t make me do this.”  
“Prudence, this is very important to me and it’s vital that you attend. There’s someone I want to introduce you to. He’s a very nice gent—”  
“No,” you say flatly. “You know how Logan gets. The last thing I need is to make him angry with me.”  
You hear a huff of displeasure through the phone—Ben never cared much for Logan anyway. He always claims something along the lines of ‘He’s riff raff, Pru. He’s not good enough to have you.’  
“Come along tonight and I swear I’ll ask someone else for the next premier.”  
“Pinky promise?”  
You hear him sigh on the other end. “…pinky promise.”  
You smile to yourself, always considering it a personal victory when you convince him to say something that makes him feel foolish. “Fine. I’ll be there, but I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt,” you grumble.  
“Oh, no you’re not.” He says quickly. “Your dress for the evening and I are already on the road.”  
You exhale loudly to communicate your mild displeasure. “Alright, Benny. I’ll start getting ready now. Where are we meeting?”  
“I’ll be at your house in less than an hour. Move quickly, now.”  
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you soon.”  
He hums his compliance, and the call is ended.  
You turn back to the mirror and sigh yet again. You always make it a point to put up a fight when he asks you to his premiers or his dinners or whatever it may be, but you kind of like being that girl. The one on Benedict’s arm—platonically, though you had your phase of crushing on him—in all of the magazine pictures and tabloid shots. It’s a tad childish, you know, to want to show the world that he is your best friend and that no woman could replace you even if she tried. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re aware that Ben knows all of it. He knows that you like to be told to dress up, and he knows that you like having status in his life, no matter how unromantic it may be, and he enjoys having the same status in yours.  
You were born and raised in Illinois, USA and moved to the UK to attend university after falling in love with British lifestyles, which is how you came to meet Ben. You and he have been friends since first year at University of Manchester. You ended up taking the same Drama and English Literature course, and instantly were glued to the other’s side, inseparable for about five years now. No man or woman has ever completed you so thoroughly; it’s not even a romantic or in-love kind of completion—he’s the best friend that finishes your thoughts and massages your back and cooks for you. And you finish his sentences and stay over late to talk about literary works and go to his premiers so women won’t try to pounce on him when he walks by. You care about each other, but it’s completely platonic, and you can be as mean or rude as you want, but neither of you is offended because that’s just how you are. It’s the perfect friendship by all definitions. You’ll even let him take drinks from your straws or glasses; no one else in your life gets that privilege.  
A small smile graces your lips as you pad to your bathroom to shower. Ten minutes later you’re in your green silk robe and blow drying your hair in front of your mirror, trying to decide how to style the unmanageable mane on your head. You decide that a simple bun will suffice well enough and put your hair in rollers for soft curls. You sweep on as much eyeliner and mascara as you dare, deciding to wait until the dress arrives to choose an eyeshadow color. When your hair is curled enough, you twist it lightly and use bobby pins to hold it your scalp, letting the curls closest to your hairline stay loose so they can frame your face, and you step back to survey yourself objectively.  
“Not bad for such short notice,” you concede. There’s a knock on your bathroom door, and you open it to find Ben in a stunning suit eying you speculatively.  
“You’re right—not bad at all. Now for the finishing touch.” He strolls into the bathroom with a bag dangling from a hanger, and unzips it with a flourish.  
Your eyes widen and your mouth gapes a bit. Ben has appeared with some risqué pieces before, but this is too much.  
“I’m not wearing that.”  
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks; I had another woman try it on to know what to expect, and when you fill it out, it looks more modest.”  
You looked at the fabric skeptically. “I don’t believe it.”  
He grunts. “Put it on anyway and let me see. We’ll decide then if we’ll need a replacement or not.”  
You scrunch your nose and take the hanger. “Wait outside.”  
As the door behind you clicks shut, you survey the fabric in your hand. It’s very pretty, if nothing else, you decide. It’s a rich crimson dress made of duchess satin; it has no sleeves, but a strip of fabric clings to either side or the shoulder strap, so that your shoulder peeks through between the two pieces. The gown flows gently the floor, and you can tell by looking that it’s form-fit. It’s not so bad, except for the plunging neckline in the front and back, and the strips of see-through lace that follow the shape of the dress from under the armhole all the way down to the hip on both sides.  
You shake your head resignedly and slip out of your comfy, modest green robe and into the slinky material.  
After readjusting the garment, you decide that Ben was right—it’s slightly more modest when it’s off the hanger, and you’re pleased to realize that it’s just tight enough to hold you in place so you needn’t wear a bra. You stroll to the door and open it wide, expecting to find your best friend waiting on your bed to see you in the dress. He’s not, however.  
“Ben,” you call out. “Come tell me what you think.”  
He doesn’t answer, and you don’t feel like waiting for him, so you grab a pair of strappy gold stilettos from your closet and slide them on, followed by a long gold necklace with a snake pendant.  
Back in the bathroom, you sweep on some shimmery champagne eyeshadow—barely enough to be seen—and turn round and round in your mirror, trying to see yourself from every angle. It really isn’t so bad after all. It’s a bit out of your comfort zone, yes, but you can make it through the night.  
Ben still isn’t in your room when you come back, so you decide to look for him downstairs; he has a tendency to run off to the kitchen and nibble on anything interesting he may find there.  
Waltzing down the stairs you try again. “Ben?” No answer. “Ben?” you call a little louder; there’s still no answer. You reach the bottom and turn right toward the hallway that leads to the front door, and you stifle your final shout when you see him on the phone. You lean your back against the wall, the cool surface giving you goose bumps on your arms, and wait for him to finish his conversation. He turns in your direction and stops mid-sentence, and mutters into the phone, “We’ll be there shortly. Yes, yes, alright… To you, as well,” and then hangs up, running one hand through his hair and placing the other on his hip.  
“What do you think?” You ask as you straighten and twirl in place.  
“I think it looks a lot better on you than it did the girl at the store. Do you like it?” he asks, finally making eye contact again.  
You shrug noncommittally. “It’s not as bad as I was expecting. Though I wouldn’t encourage you to introduce me to anything bolder than this in the future; I’m pretty sure this is my limit.”  
He nods distractedly and asks if you need a handbag.  
“I’ll need somewhere to put my cell phone, and there’re no hidden pockets in here. Believe me, I’d know.”  
“I can hold onto it if you’d like.”  
You nod and hand him your phone, watching him slide it into his inside pocket. “I’ve just got to grab a jacket.” You turn to run up the stairs again.  
“Prudence, it’s the middle of summer—you don’t need a jacket. Let’s go.”  
“Well let me leave a note for Logan, at least.”  
You go to the kitchen and jot down a note to Logan on a pad by the phone.  
Honey,  
I’ve gone with Benedict to his premier. It was a last  
minute decision. I’ll be home as soon as I can.  
Endless love,  
Prudence  
And with that, you and Ben hop into his Lotus and leave for the premier of War Horse.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s dark by the time you get half way to the ‘festivities building,’ as you like to call it, and Ben takes his eyes off the road momentarily to fix you with a stare.  
“Is he treating you better yet?” he asks softly.  
Your back stiffens in indignation and you reply slowly. “He never treated me badly.”  
“I think that’s your personal assessment rather than the general consensus.”  
“Things are fine between us, Ben,” you sigh. You hate lying to him, and he has an uncanny ability to tell when you’re doing it.  
“Are you certain?” his smooth voice is gentle, concerned.  
You stare straight ahead and avoid looking at him as you answer. “No.”  
You see him nod from the corner of your eye.  
The truth is, things haven’t been okay with Logan in months. He’s very jealous, and easily angered. You say things to each other often that you don’t mean, and you both eventually regret it. It’s not a perfect relationship by any means, but you love him. Logan is the one you’re going to marry; he’s the rugged man you plan to spend the rest of your life with. No one else in the world could put up with you the way he does or tie you down with such precision as he, so you decided long ago that you would grow old with him.  
“He really doesn’t deserve you, Pru.”  
“You probably shouldn’t try to drag this conversation into the open again, especially when I’m doing you a favor,” you joke half-heartedly.  
“We’ll talk later,” he allows.  
That’s debatable, you think.  
He reaches over with his right hand to grab your left, lacing his fingers through yours, and gently kisses your knuckles and holding the back of your palm to his chest.  
“I just want to see you with someone worthwhile, is all,” he says, releasing your hand.  
Tiring quickly of the never-ceasing slams against your boyfriend, you change the subject.  
“How’s Selena been lately? I haven’t heard you bring her up in a while.”  
Benedict accepts that the conversation is over for now, and replies without pause. “Oh, yes. I’ve been meaning to tell you: we went our separate ways as of last week.”  
“Why? I really liked you guys together!”  
“As did I, but she had other plans for herself, it seems.”  
Your face scrunches up in sympathy as you look at him. “I was really hoping to see you guys together for a long while.”  
He shrugged lightly and gave you an endearing smile. “You make it seem like we were meant to be,” he joked. “We only dated for a month or so.”  
“Yes, but she seemed good for you, and she was the second female you’ve ever been with that I actually thoroughly liked.”  
“Yes, she was a nice girl, but we won’t be hearing from her any time soon, I suspect.”  
By this time, the building was in sight and you were beginning to get antsy. Benedict pulled into the designated parking area and gave his keys to a valet, taking you by the hand and leading you toward the red carpet entrance.  
“Hold on,” you say, removing your hand from his. “You straighten your dress and tug and pull your hair until it sits comfortably and ask Ben his opinion.  
“Do I still look okay? Should I touch up my makeup before we go in?”  
He gives an affectionate smile and grabs your hand, putting it on his arm. “You look radiant. Nothing you do could possibly improve your appearance.”  
You smile gently and squeeze his arm, taking a deep breath in preparation for the trek across the long and winding aisle. He puts his hand atop yours on his arm and led the way through the door.  
“Mister Cumberbatch! What was your favorite scene in the movie?”  
“Benedict, how does it feel to be a part of this production?”  
“What is it like to work alongside Misters Hiddleston and Irvine?”  
“Miss Henderson, what relationship do you have with Mister Cumberbatch?”  
By now, you are nearly accustomed to the overwhelming sounds and lights that accompany the paparazzi, and you simply smile wide and grasp Ben’s arm a little more firmly. Ben isn’t one to immediately answer every question that comes his way, and for that you’re very thankful; it would be nerve-wracking to stand at his side while the cameras flash and he drones on about work. You love your best friend, and you love that he’s so invested in his job, but everyone can tire quite easily of the endless stories of working on set and doing this or saying that, so you count your blessings when Ben waves at the cameras and begins leading you toward the still shot area.  
After being prepped for your segment on stage, you waltz slowly in front of the canvas, your red gown clinging as tightly to you as you cling to Benedict. This is always your least favorite part, standing still while people you don’t even know take countless pictures of you that will be all over the internet in twenty minutes’ time. Even so, you answer the various “Who are you wearing?” inquiries, smiling the whole while, still touching Ben’s arm for a sense of security.  
Eventually the photographers want you out of the shots, so you idle off to the side and watch as Ben works his magic on the public. A six foot ¬ginger god in a dark tailored suit stands in front of you, his large hands in the pockets at his slim waist, and his feet spread apart so he can stand comfortably as he woos the cameras with his dashing smile. He turns to the side, giving the crowd a good look not only at the side and back of his black suit, but also of his bum, and you can hardly contain your laughter as you realize that he did it on purpose. That man never fails to entertain himself at events like this, a point emphasized by the sly smile gracing his lips. You’re startled from your amusement as a male photographer appears at your side and grabs your right arm; your reflexes cause you to pull your arm away from him, but he’s quicker than you are, and he tugs you back toward Ben, finally releasing your arm and nudging you further away from himself by his hand on your lower back. Well, that’s not very polite!  
Ben wraps his arm around your waist and watches the man curiously until he crouches down and takes a couple more shots, shouting, “Go on now—let’s see a kiss!”  
You can hardly contain your eye roll at the man’s overtness. A kiss, indeed! Ben and you have never kissed on camera, as it could confuse the public—and your boyfriend—on the boundaries of your relationship. Yes, you are often used as a scapegoat to keep infatuated fans at a distance, but Ben has never explicitly stated that you are a girlfriend, nor that you’re only a friend. The press tends to latch onto the idea that you’re a couple; you like to imagine that it’s the more scandalous story, and that’s why they favor it.  
You look at Ben and smile, expecting that once again he would laugh the suggestion off and you’d walk off the platform together. He looks down at you, and as you see his head moving a little closer to yours, you begin to panic; Logan is very jealous and would not take kindly to his girlfriend being kissed by another man on television. Your worries are misplaced however, as Ben reaches for your chin and tilts your face away from his and the cameras as he leaves a lingering kiss on your cheek.  
You release a small breath that you didn't realize you’d been holding, and smile a little brighter, putting your arm around his waist and pulling him away from the cameras and the groans of the disappointed photographers.  
“I thought you were really going to do it!” you exhale in relief as you get out of earshot of cameras, stars and interviewers alike milling about the place.  
“I’m cleverer than that, thank you.” He pauses, looking about. “Remember earlier when we were on the phone together?”  
“It was only a few hours ago,” you state, curious at the sudden change of topic.  
“You recall me saying that there was someone I wanted you to meet?” His eyes are focused on something in the distance—something that your five-foot-eight-inches can’t see.  
You sigh and answer. “Yes, but I told you I’m not interested.”  
He is about to reply when a reporter and camera crew approach, asking for an interview. Ben graciously accepts, and you excuse yourself, as you don’t care for being on live television.  
There’s a small area inside the building that is both quiet and generally avoided, as most people are in front of cameras and reporters, trying to get their moment of acknowledgement. Personally, you don’t see the allure. Answering the same questions for every interviewer that comes along, and then having to answer personal questions or tell anecdotal stories to people you don’t know doesn’t seem like a good time to you; more often than not you end up in spaces like these when you go to events with Ben, but you like it. It’s comfortable to sit in near silence; the only time you’re interrupted is when a worker in the building asks if you need anything, and you often decline the offers as it is, leaving you surrounded by merciful silence.  
You’re sitting quietly in a conveniently-placed over-stuffed chair, with your head leaned back and your eyes closed when you hear shuffling near you and the sound of someone seating him or herself in the chair beside you. If it’s Ben, he’ll make some sound to demand your attention, and since you hear no coughs, grunts, or obnoxious British drawls, you determinedly keep your eyes shut and breathe slowly, exaggerating the movements a bit in hopes that your invisible not-friend might think you’re sleeping and will leave you alone. It works—for about two minutes.  
A polite clearing of the throat and a smooth voice shatters all dreams of solitude.  
“Is it more exciting in here by your lonesome than it is mingling with the famous?” the low voice asked amusedly.  
You choose your next words carefully, and say them as kindly as possible. “Yes; I prefer to be around those who can keep their feet on the ground.”  
“You were here by yourself,” he points out.  
The corner of your mouth quirks up. “So I was.”  
You hear a breathy laugh and open your eyes to see Tom Hiddleston smiling and chuckling at you.

His smile widens as he catches you looking at him. “So you’ve decided to view the world outside of the back of your eyelids!” he jokes.  
“It seems that way,” you comment. “I’m Prudence.” You extend your hand for a firm shake, but he instead grasps it gently and kisses the back of your palm.  
“Thomas. You can call me Tom if you’d prefer it. Is that an American accent I hear?”  
“Indeed, it is, Mister Hiddleston.” you answer playfully.  
“How interesting,” His smile widens even further, proudly displaying two rows of perfect white teeth.  
“If you say so," you laugh. You lean back into your chair, relaxing fully against it, sneaking a side glance at him. He’s tall—a little taller than Benny, probably; you can tell the much even when he’s seated. His curly mop of blond hair sits perfectly atop his head, and his blue-green eyes positively sparkle at you. His cheekbones rest high on his clean-shaven face, and his smile is downright stunning.  
He leans back in his chair as well and then asks, “Why aren’t you out taking interviews?”  
You shrug lightly. “I don’t really care for cameras or loads of people; the busy scene is more Ben’s thing than it is mine. Why aren’t you taking interviews?” you ask in return.  
“I’ve no interest in repeating the same answers to different people. Do you always come into the secluded areas and wait for your boyfriend to finish his screen time?”  
Sidestepping the not-very-well-hidden question of ‘Is Benedict Cumberbatch your beau?’ you answer simply, “More often than not I find my way to a less conspicuous space until Ben is ready to leave.”  
“How does he manage to find you when you wander off so frequently?”  
“He usually just calls or texts when he’s ready to go.”  
Tom nods knowingly.  
“Which reminds me, actually,” you begin. You reach for your handbag to grab your cell phone, and remember that you didn’t bring anything with you at all, and Ben has your cell in his jacket pocket. You sigh and stand, deciding that you’d better find Ben now to see if he’s finished giving monologues to the press.  
“Right. It seems that I’ve left my phone with him, actually, so I’d better be off to find him.” You extend your hand once more to the handsome blonde man before you. “It was a fine time talking to you, Tom. If you’ll excuse me,” you murmur politely.  
He leans over your hand, still seated, and kisses the back of it a bit slower this time than last. His gorgeous eyes are fixed on your face, and a small smile twitches around his lips. “You’re a charm, Miss Henderson. I hope to see you around.”  
You smile and nod silently as he releases your hand and stroll back toward the half of the building harboring Benedict, hoping to find him sooner rather than later, as you’re not inclined to wander in front of cameras for long periods of time.  
You sneak back into the main building, dodging cameras whenever possible, and giving polite smiles and waves to the people who happen to make eye contact with you. You walk past actors and actresses, some fads and some timeless, looking for Ben in the most inconspicuous fashion possible. You take long, meaningful strides so you look like you know where you’re going, occasionally sweeping your bright gaze across the crowd around you. It’s been nearly ten minutes and you can’t find him anywhere. You’re about to give up entirely when you accidentally connect sights with David Thewlis; you glide over to him with a warm smile stuck to your face and extend your hand.  
“Mister Thewlis, it’s a delight to meet you. I’m Prudence Henderson.”  
“Surely not Benedict’s Prudence?” he asks as he accepts your handshake.  
“The one and only,” you laugh.  
“I nearly feel like I know you; the boy hardly stopped talking about you on set,” he smiles at the blush creeping across your cheeks.  
“Well I hope he’s told only pleasant stories about me.”  
“We heard only tales of adoration,” he confirmed with a grin.  
“That’s fantastic to know,” you laugh lightly again. “Speaking of Benedict—you haven’t seen him around here lately have you?”  
“Last I checked he was actually taking and interview with Cosmopolitan.”  
Your eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Right. And that was taking place where, again?”  
He turned and pointed toward the corner of the building farthest from your current position. Typical.  
“Thanks so much, Mister Thewlis. I really should go find him before he lands himself in more trouble than he can handle.”  
“Please, Prudence, call me David. Take care!” he calls after you as you walk into the throng once again.  
After many bumps and apologies on your part, you finally reach the section that David had indicated, and sure enough Benedict is standing in front of a camera and a female reporter in a dress even more daring than yours. You approach from the side to avoid being in the shot; the crew would hardly appreciate that, would they? Ben smiles a little as his eyes land on you, before he turns back to the beautiful interviewer.  
“And just one more question,” the dark haired-female promises. “What do you find sexy on a woman?”  
Ben thinks for a moment, his eyes flicking to you for the smallest fraction of a second, almost in panicking question (What should I say, Pru? I don’t want to sound shallow!), and then back to the woman to your left.  
“Very little makeup and a personality that’ll shine through any style,” he says with conviction.  
You smile in approval and wait for the interview to come to a close when the reporter finally realizes that you’re standing next to her.  
She smiles brightly and speaks into the microphone in her hand. “And here we have Prudence Henderson, the famed girlfriend of Mister Cumberbatch!”  
You hardly contain your groan and the camera turns to face you. You plaster a smile to your face and give a meek, “Hello,” to the camera.  
“Miss Henderson,” she purrs, “Can you tell us what it’s like to be in a relationship with Benny here?”  
Your irritation flares a bit when she calls him ‘Benny.’ No one else gets to do that! Only you and his mum have the right to call him by that name.  
Ben is at your side with his hand on the small of your back, a small gesture of support as the woman in front of you tries to glean information from you.  
“It’s not very lady-like to disclose such information.” You give a—slightly patronizing—sympathetic head tilt to emphasize your point. You didn’t confirm or deny a relationship with your best friend, and for that you’re proud of yourself. Honestly, it’s a gift—being able to make so many ambiguous statements. You happen to be good at avoiding confrontation when necessary, and because of that you’ve developed a talent for telling people what they want to hear without actually telling them anything.  
“Prudence—may I call you Pru—I’m asking on behalf of the entire female population of both the UK and America!”  
You shake your head slightly when she asks if she can call you by Ben’s nickname, and she looks taken aback. What are you supposed to do? You can’t have random strangers calling you by that very personal name. You barely mind that you were rude, and continue as if the infraction had not taken place.  
“Ben is a wonderful man, and any woman in the world would be more than lucky to have him.”  
As if on cue, Ben pulls you against his side and addresses your interrogator. “She makes me better. I’d be lost in the world without this woman.”  
You genuinely laugh at how thickly he’s laying it on and lean away from him, shaking your head. “You’re a menace to society, Benedict.”  
“Imagine where I’d be without you,” he murmurs and kisses your forehead.  
The Cosmo representative turns back to her camera. “That’s an up-close-and-personal view into the relationship of Benny and Pru, one of England’s favorite couples!”  
You pull Ben away from the press and toward the nearest exit, where it was quieter.  
“If people start calling us ‘Benny and Pru,’ I’m going to track that woman down myself,” you hiss quietly; Ben chuckles at your well-contained fury. “I was going to text you earlier to find you, but I had no cell phone to do so; next time I’ll just bring my handbag, yeah?” you say.  
“That reminds me: you left the volume on, and the blasted thing wouldn’t stop ringing. I had to turn it off to finish my interviews.”  
You hold out your hand as Ben passes you the device, and you turn it on, hoping against hope that it was just your mum calling to tell you that she’d seen you on the telly and to tell how pretty you look. When you see that you have three voicemails, all dreams of Mother Dearest’s coddling voice go out the window. You know that it was Logan that called, and that he’s probably stewing in his own rage at this very moment, livid that you might have the audacity to turn your phone off when he calls.  
“I’m going to go outside and call Logan back. I’ll text you in a bit.”  
Each voicemail is angrier and louder, and by the end of the third one, he’s practically shouting into the phone.  
“Where are you? You tell me you’re leaving with him, and then you ignore my calls and turn off your phone? Do you know how that looks? I swear to God Above, Prudence, if you’re fucking him—” his threat is choked off by his own rage, and you know that you have to go home as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wanted smut, right? Well, here we go!

You text Ben before listening to the whole message.

\--Logan’s losing it. Taking a taxi back home. I’ll call tomorrow.

His response is immediate and short.

\--Call tonight if you need anything.

The taxi ride home is faster than the ride there, partly because the traffic is all but gone due to the late hour, and partly because you’re dreading your reception, and time always flies when you least want it to.  
You barely get your foot in the door before your hear his footsteps coming down the hallway. You take a deep breath to brace yourself and shut the door, squaring your shoulders before turning to face him.  
He’s in a fit, and you know it. His dark hair is ruffled, from the countless times he’s undoubtedly run his fingers through it; his amber eyes are troubled, and fixed solely on you.  
Even when you know you’re about to argue the night away, you can’t help but be hopelessly attracted to him.  
He’s wearing his black suit today. The lapels on the jacket lay flat against his toned chest, and are a stark comparison to the pristine, white button-down beneath and the black tie around his neck. His narrow hips are hugged by the black straight-legged pants, and his feet are rid of his shoes, though he’s still wearing his white socks.  
Even though he’s ruffled and his five-o’clock shadow is quite prominent, he still looks perfectly put together.  
His eyes widen as he takes in your appearance. “You wore that in public?”  
You sigh. You think it had been too much, as well, but you aren’t about to tell him that. “Yes, I did.”  
“Were you even trying to cover yourself, or did you want every man in the city trying to sleep with you on your night out?” he asks, irritated.  
You look down and nonchalantly reply. “You think every man in town liked it? I hadn’t thought about it, actually. I’m glad I found something so appealing.” You learned long ago that playing dumb and innocent riles him faster and more efficiently than anything else.  
You see his jaw twitch; already, he’s losing his temper. This will be fun, to say the least.  
“You know how I feel about this. Don’t make a joke of it.” His growl is always so sexy, even before a big tiff.  
“Who’s joking?” you ask as you put your cell phone on the table in the hallway, walking past him to the kitchen. You grab a bottle of mineral water and turn to face him, leaning back against the counter, which rises about as far as the top of your pelvis.  
He follows you and stands before you, nearly pinning you between himself and the counter. “Dammit, Prudence! Stop it now!” his fist comes down on said counter top, causing you to blink; you know he physically lashes out at some point in every argument, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of startling you anymore.  
You stand up straighter, still much shorter than his six-foot-one, and look him in the eye, daring him to do anything rash.  
“Stop what, Logan? Stop taking your threats lightly? Stop going out with Ben? Stop having a life? Elaborate for me!”  
“Stop strutting around as if you’re not my girlfriend!”  
“Strutt—” he cuts you off with another shout.  
“And stop giving Benedict the leg over behind my back!”  
“Oh my god, Logan! How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not sleeping with him? He’s been my best friend for years—we’re very close is all,” you growl, shoving him away from you.  
He follows close behind and turns you around by the shoulder, attempting to continue your shout match. “You’re just close,” he spits, “just-close friends don’t let the world believe that they’re fucking when one of them has a boyfriend!”  
“It’s just to keep his fangirls at bay!” Okay, that sounds far-fetched in this context, even to your own ears.  
“I don’t believe it, Prudence. I never have.” He moves in closer, his grip sliding to your upper arm and tightening. “He’s been touching what’s mine and I won’t have it. You don’t belong to him.”  
You know it shouldn’t be happening, but your knees are getting weak at his outrageous masculinity. He’s rugged and somehow immaculate simultaneously, and he’s wearing your favorite suit, and he always smells so damn good. You won’t give him the upper hand, no matter how ravishing he looks, sounds, and smells. Weakness for sexy possessive men or not, he’s not going to get to you. You remove yourself from his grasp and stand near the doorway that leads to the staircase. “I belong to no one but myself, Logan Wade.”  
His nostrils flare at the use of his middle name, and he moves a few steps closer to you.  
“Are you sure about that?” he growls, and you have to suppress your shiver. He’s onto you, and you know it.  
You straighten your shoulders even more and stare him dead in the face, willing your breathing to stay even, despite the fact that he’s prowling closer still. “I’m positive, thanks.”  
“Then why can I smell you from here?”  
The swirl of pleasure in your tummy threatens to overtake you at his implication of your arousal, but the almost-smirk on his face brings you to a boil, and your unmitigated fury refuses to allow him any kind of gratification.  
Before you know it you’re within arms’ reach, and your hand is flying toward his face. Instead of hearing the expected satisfying smack! you feel his firm hand around your wrist and then the wall against your back as he slams you into it, covering your body with his. You’re fighting to bring air back into your lungs after having it knocked out, and if you could, you would groan in delight as he leans down to your ear.  
“Trying to get violent now, are we? I won’t be having that, Prudence.”  
He shucks his suit jacket to the side, and pins the offending hand against the wall, hiding his face in your neck as your free hand tangles in his hair. You try to resist—honestly, you do—but he’s everything you need, and he discovered long ago the rough sex kink that you have. You’re helpless to deny him when he does this to you.  
He kisses beneath your ear, trailing his lips from just below your earlobe down to the curve of your shoulder, where he bites down gently, sending so many tingling sensations to every important part of your body; your hand tightens in his hair, nails scratching his scalp.  
He growls, biting harder, and pressing his pelvis more snugly against yours, and you can feel his length growing harder by the second. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “This isn’t going to be on your terms, Prudence. You’re not in charge anymore.” He extracts your hand from his hair and pins it above your head, right beside the other, and you have to bite your tongue to keep your moan in your throat where it currently belongs. He traps both of your hands in one of his, and places his free hand on your hip. Logan’s head dips down to the left side of your neck, his nose nudging at your face to turn it, and his tongue traces from your shoulder up to the corner of your jaw. Here he plants a warm deliberate kiss, waiting for your reaction. When you stay perfectly still out of anticipation, he presses firm kisses from there down to your cleavage while his right hand starts roughly pulling your floor-length dress upward toward your thigh. He finally gets the hem of the gown up to your knee, and he shoves it up to your hip, his face still nuzzling your breasts.  
“I can smell him on you,” he snarls. “I can smell his trashy, cheap cologne all over you.”  
You really shouldn’t, but who could resist antagonizing someone so furious?  
“I’ve always been rather fond of Benny’s smell,” you say breathlessly, knowing that he hates that you have a nickname for Benedict but not one for him.  
And that is the last straw. As soon as the words leave your mouth, Logan is pulling your panties down and pushing your knees apart while you stand pinned against the wall. His belt and pants come undone faster than you’ve ever witnessed before, and he kicks them off and to the side.  
He wastes no time, and there’s no prelude to him slamming his entire length into you on the first thrust.  
“Oh, hell!” you cry. “Logan, I—”  
He doesn’t allow you to speak. His mouth covers yours to silence you, and your left leg comes up to wrap around his hip and he slides into you over and over again.  
“Who does it better, Prudence?” he grunts against your lips. “Can he fuck you like I do? Can he be rough the way you need it?”  
You can do nothing more than arch your back and keen in pleasure.  
He snaps his hips upward forcefully, nearly lifting you from the floor, and then immediate slows his thrusts. “Answer me!” He leans back to look at you, his thrusts slow and deep, and repeats himself. “Who does it better?” his hips press upward again, and you’re left gasping for air and he brushes with the perfect pressure against that glorious spot inside you.  
“Y—you do.”  
“Use your words, Prudence.”  
“You fuck me better,” you breathe.  
“Can he fuck you like the dirty little slut you are?”  
Your head shakes from side to side. “Not even if he wanted to.”  
Self-satisfied can’t even begin to describe the smile on his face.  
“And you’d do well to remember it,” he growls.  
His pace picks up again, and he pins your arms higher on the wall so you’re standing on your tiptoes, and the majority of your weight is placed against him. His hand slides under your bum, and you hop up as he lifts, wrapping your legs around his bare hips, and bracing your newly freed hands on his shoulders.  
He scrapes his short nails down the exposed area of your back, drawing a moan from you as you grind up and down on his cock.  
“Logan, fuck me.”  
He growls and tugs at the length of the gown between you.   
“This has to go. Now.”  
He puts you on the ground, impatiently pulling the fabric away from your body. You hear the sound of seams ripping as he roughly disrobes you, but you aren’t concerned. You’ll figure out a way to repay Ben later for the damaged garment.  
As soon as the dress gets as low as your waist, you smack Logan’s hands away and push it the rest of the way down, kicking it to join his pants and jacket. You lift an ankle to remove your heels, but he stops you.  
“Leave them on.”  
You nod and grasp the front of his shirt, pulling sharply and sending buttons in every which direction as the shirt rips open. He growls again and knots his hand in your hair, pulling your head back.  
He backs you into the wall and lifts your leg up once more, pressing into you as he had before.  
You love having hate sex with Logan. No one in the world could possibly fuck you as thoroughly as he does when he’s angry.  
He lifts you again, so your legs are around his waist, and pulls you completely down on his shaft. He holds you there as he walks to the kitchen table, which is shorter than the counter, and sets your bum on it.  
You lean forward to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him, but he uses the hand in your hair to pull you backward until you’re lying flat on the table. He removes his hand from your hair and puts it on your pelvis, holding you in place as he gives you the most thorough fucking you’ve ever experienced to date.  
The molten ball of warmth is beginning to pool low in your stomach, and your back arches as your hands glide up your body to softly pinch your nipples. You’re grinding roughly against him as he pulls you harder and harder onto himself. Your back is arching, and your moans are getting louder.  
“Touch yourself,” he commands, and you don’t need to be told twice.  
Your right hand slides between your legs to find your clit, and you being rubbing furiously as he pounds into you repeatedly. You’re so close—so close—to finishing when he leans forward and snarls into your ear.  
“Don’t you dare come yet. You are not to come until I tell you to do it!”  
You whimper and place your hands on the table beside you to try to fend of the rush of pleasure waiting to burst inside you.  
“I didn’t say to stop. Play with yourself, Prudence,” he says forcefully, and you obey.  
Slow, agonizing circles make their way around your most sensitive area, and you’re praying to any deity that will listen that he tells you to come soon.  
You’re so close and he’s pounding harder and deeper into you and you can’t take it. You’re going to finish without permission!  
Suddenly, his thrusts get impossibly faster and he shouts, “Come for me!”  
You circle your clit faster and faster, moans of delight floating toward the ceiling, and he smacks you on the ass. The dam of ecstasy in your belly finally breaks, and you’re drowning in it.  
Your moans turn to shouts as Logan relentlessly fucks you through your orgasm until he follows behind and collapses on top of you.  
You stroke his sweaty hair out of his face and frame him with your thighs, pulling him close.  
He looks at your face, and you smile gently. You crook your finger at him. When he comes closer, you kiss him softly on the lips. “No man could ever do it better,” you murmur.  
He kisses you back, but stays silent.  
“I love you, Logan. Now let’s go to bed, I’m exhausted.”


	4. Chapter 4

You wake up at half six in your bed, crimson sheets hugging you tightly, wrapped in Logan’s arms with your head resting against his hair-dusted chest. His clean, woodsy smell lingers in the air around you, and you reminisce idly about how easy things used to be before Logan got jealous and before you got worried. You look up into his face and smile to yourself. Despite everything, you really do love him, and you can’t think of anything you wouldn’t do to keep him happy. You place a small kiss on the corner of his jaw and breathe deeply, reveling in the smell of his favorite cologne.  
You lay your head back on his chest and cuddle closer to him as you think about what to do today. You have that report for Ben’s charity to finish and some laundry to do, so that’s most important on your list. As you lay next to him, snuggled closely to his side, your belly growls. You decide maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if eat before you started work, and you leave the warm sanctity of your bed to prepare breakfast.  
You listen to the music on your computer, dancing your way about the kitchen, and your bum wiggles from side to side as you scoop scrambled eggs onto two plates followed by strips of bacon and wheat toast.  
“Logan,” you call, “Breakfast is ready!”  
When he doesn’t come down for his meal, you turn off the music and head up the stairs to wake him, but find that he’s already up. He’s on the phone, murmuring quietly, and to avoid interrupting the call you motion that food has been prepared for him; he nods dismissively at you and returns to his call.  
You munch idly on the toast and savor each sip of your tea, willing your day to be a productive and enjoyable one.  
Logan comes downstairs dressed in his dark navy-blue suit, his hair brushed back from his forehead and his face cleanly shaven. His silver watch gleams brightly on his left wrist. He slowly settles himself across the table from you, appreciatively eyeing your robed form.  
Silence consumes the room as breakfast is eaten, your anxieties about your relationship growing by the second. This is how it always happens now. You fight; you fuck; you try to fix it; you fail, and then you’re right back here—sitting in awkward silence in each other’s presence. This is not how it should be. You should be happy with each other; your relationship shouldn’t survive on jealousy, angry sex, and severed intimacy.  
For the ten thousandth time since you’ve begun drifting apart, you fear that you won’t be able to make it through the rut you’re in.  
He stands to leave for work, his tea and plate still on the dining table.  
“I love you,” you say to him.  
He acknowledges you with a slight nod and a quiet, “You, too.”  
Deciding that his response is not good enough, you rise and stroll over to him, strategically placing one hand on his right cheek and the other behind his stiffened neck, pulling him in for a long, gentle, languid kiss. You slide your tongue against his and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself flush against him. His hands fall to your hips and knead your skin lightly as he returns your kiss. Your fingers brush over his cheeks as you pull away to look into his face.  
“I love you, Logan.”  
His expression hardly softens, but he runs a hand through your slightly tangled hair and replies with a gentle, “I love you, too.”  
Giving him one more chaste kiss, you step out of his way and head to clean the kitchen. You hear the front door click shut with finality and you wait until you hear his car pull away before you sit down and sigh. There’s no way you’ll make it through. You love him more than anything, but he’s not even trying anymore.  
Why are you trying to power through if he’s so careless about it? It seems that he doesn’t even care anymore; he only tells you he loves you when your force it from him or corner him into saying it. You sigh again and put the dishes into the washer and then head to the front hallway.  
About ten minutes ago, the main priority on your list was compiling the list of guests for Ben’s charity ball, but now you’re thinking that you need some fresh air and some time away from thinking, so you find your phone on the table against the wall and call the man in question.  
“Hey, Benny!”  
“Hello, Pru. How did it go last night?”  
“About the same as usual,” you reply. You can pretty much hear his disapproving frown.  
“That’s not healthy for your relationship.”  
“It’s worked for us this long. Anyhow, that’s not what I’m calling about. Do you feel like a walk today? I’d like to get out of the house again if you’re up for it.”  
“Absolutely,” he drawls. He sounds far too ecstatic for a simple walk. “Where and when shall we meet?”  
“Eleven at the park? Can we please have an early-lunch picnic?” you plead sweetly.  
“Absolutely. I’ll bring the food. You bring the blanket and your pretty face and I’ll meet you there.”  
“Thanks, Ben. I really appreciate it.”  
“Anything for you, darling. See you soon.”  
And with that the call was ended, leaving you to prep yourself for a day in the sunshine with your best friend.  
By ten-thirty you’re already at your favorite spot in the park. Every time you and Ben meet for a picnic, it’s always at this corner of this park. You lie back on the cliché white and red checkered blanket, soaking in the unusually warm weather. In honor of the sunshine you opted to wear your denim cut-offs and a red tank top, your hair pulled loosely into a clip behind your head. Your eyes are closed while you recline flat on your back, your arms propping up your head as you breathe in the smells of summer. The sun is nearly blinding you even behind your eyelids until a shadow crosses your face, blocking out the light. You say nothing as you wait for it to move on, but it doesn’t, and that means that Ben is here with food and that you get to talk to him about the rest of his night. Your lips curve into the fond smile that Ben tends to extract from you and you open your eyes to see—not Ben.  
A flawless sculpture of a man is standing above you, his curly hair sitting messily on top of his head, and he’s wearing calf-length khakis and a Bon Iver t-shirt. His large smile and blue green eyes are aimed at you, and you blink again to make sure that he isn’t a mirage from having been too blinded by the sun.  
“Hello, again,” he says cheerily. “Why is it that every time we run into each other, you’re hiding from the world behind your eyelids?”  
Ignoring his question entirely, you smile back at him. “Hello, Tom. Beautiful day has you out and about as well?”  
“Actually your man, Ben, has me out and about this morning. He’s invited me to what he promises will be a spectacular picnic, so I couldn’t object.”  
You smile again, refusing to refute the implication that Ben is your boyfriend and respond sincerely. “I’m glad he invited you. I’m afraid I may have been rather rude the last time we met. This’ll give me a chance to make up for it, I hope.”  
As if on cue, Ben walks up to the impromptu meeting, basket of food in hand, and gives you a toothy smile.  
“Good morning, Pru.” He greets.  
“Morning, Benny.” You smile at him.  
“You look nice today, dear.”  
You smile and look down at your outfit, “I just threw it on, but thank you.”  
“You do look darling today,” Tom confirms.  
You blush and adjust the hem on your shirt. “Thank you, Tom. You both look dashing, yourselves.”  
You look across the blanket at Benedict, looking handsome as always with his hair loosely waved and his smile bright and perfect. He’s seated and wearing a pair of blue plaid shorts that stop just above his knees and a white v-neck tee-shirt. You glance between him and Tom, wondering how any one person—let alone two— can possibly look so delectable without even trying.  
Tom’s smile brightens a little at your compliment as he lowers himself to the ground, and Ben puffs out his chest in mock-arrogance.  
“So what did you bring for us to eat?” you ask impatiently, hungrily eyeing the basket that so teasingly promised goods. In hopes that he would bring something delicious, you staved off eating anything but the breakfast you prepared that morning.  
“Well,” he reaches into the basket and pauses for dramatic effect, smiling that the curiosity painted on your face. “We have Walkers,” he pulls out an unopened bag of Walkers Salt & Vinegar crisps and sets them to the side, reaching in again. “Sandwich materials,” he removes, butter, bits of grilled chicken, tomato slices, crusty bread, and leafy lettuce. “I also brought you some sliced turkey and mustard, Pru.” He tells you this as he pulls the respective foods out of his good bag. “You don’t say it, but I know you miss eating American foods sometimes. Which is also why I brought your favorite homemade macaroni and cheese, the way your mum used to do it.” He smiles as he removes the container from the basket and places it on the blanket alongside the rest of the goodies. Upon hearing of the homemade foods, Tom makes a contented hum, and you see his fingers tap infinitesimally against his knee.  
“Thank you, Benny!” you squeal as you snatch up the container of mac and cheese. Ben hands you a plate and fork before grabbing the water bottles he brought for everyone.  
He shrugs nonchalantly, “I had time to make it, so I thought ‘Why not?’”  
You look at him, surprised, “You made it today?”  
He nods, a slight smile tugging at his lips.  
You groan and give him a quick squeeze around the shoulders, looking to Tom seated next to him.  
“I have the greatest best friend in the world!”  
Tom chuckles and opens the bag of crisps, “I see that. I might have to steal him if he does this often.”  
“I dare you to try, Mister Hiddleston.” You give him a playful glare, to which he replies with a slight smirk, and you open the Tupperware in your hands.  
“Ben, it smells fantastic.” It’s still warm, and you greedily scoop some onto the plate provided by Ben.  
“Mind if I try some as well?” Tom asked politely.  
“Sure thing,” you reply readily as you hand him the glass box.  
Shortly thereafter, everyone has a plate of the most delicious foods in front of them, and you ask about the rest of their night.  
Ben finishes the bite in his mouth as the question leaves your lips and he motions with his hand that he’s about to speak.  
“I caught wind of some new show about to air on BBC called Sherlock. I think I’m going to audition.”  
“Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes?”  
He nods as he takes another bite.  
“What part are you auditioning for?”  
Ben’s mouth is full of food so he looks to Tom, who answers for him. “Moriarty,” he pauses, “We talked about it last night,” his answer to your unasked question makes you smile slightly.  
You look back to Ben. “So you’re telling me that you get to dress up as a nineteenth century villain?” you practically shout. “This is so exciting!”  
“I might get to be Moriarty,” he reminds you. “But the time period is here and now rather than the classic, I believe.”  
“Modern Moriarty,” you muse. “I like the sound of it. When are auditions?”  
“Next week, actually. I should be getting my lines soon so I can begin practicing.”  
“I’m so thrilled for you! I’ll get to come see the set right?”  
Benedict laughed. “I haven’t even auditioned yet and you’re already making plans to see me acting. If,” he stresses the word, “I get the part, I’ll see about you coming for a day to watch.”  
You smile brightly around your mouthful of mac and cheese. “Good answer.”  
“Oh, I’m not the only one with exciting news,” Ben states, looking to the blonde Adonis next to him.  
Tom takes a swig of water and nods. “Joss Whedon approached me last night. He’s making another movie next year about Thor and Loki, asked me to play the part again. Obviously, I accepted so now I’m just waiting for further information.”  
“He’s making another Marvel movie?”  
Tom nods and takes another drink.  
“Yes!” you hiss. “Oh, this is brilliant. I love Marvel comics, and Whedon’s work is amazing. I practically love the man.”  
Tom chuckles at your ardor, “If things go according to my plans, I could introduce you to him. That much enthusiasm wouldn’t go unappreciated.”  
“Are you serious? You would really introduce me to him?” Your eyes practically roll back in our head when Tom nods his confirmation. “That would be amazing!”  
He smiles slightly. “Then consider it done.” He takes another bite of his sandwich.  
You turn to Ben. “I don’t know where you found this guy,” you say as you point your thumb at Tom. “but I like him. Keep him around for a while.” You smile and wink toward Tom.  
“I’ll remain his friend solely for you, Prudence.” You can practically feel the sarcasm rolling off Ben, and you scrunch your nose at him and put your empty plate in the basket.  
“What are your plans for today?” Ben asks.  
You lie on your back again with your hands behind your head. “I still have to make that list for your charity ball. I also need to do some laundry before work.”  
“You work tonight?” he groans. He takes Tom’s plate and his own and puts them back in the basket, reclining on his side and facing you.  
“It’s Monday. Of course I work.”  
You own a pub in downtown London, and you bartend every night of the week, excluding Sundays when you have it closed down.  
“Can’t you have someone else work the bar tonight? I wanted to take you to a film in Germany.”  
You stare at him, dumbfounded. “Contrary to what you might think, I actually have to work hard to make sure my business stays afloat. I don’t need anyone mucking about and irreparably damaging something when I could have been there to prevent it. And as for leaving the country to see a movie: we both know that wouldn’t fly. Logan is paranoid enough about you and me, and an impromptu flight would only serve to increase that paranoia.”   
Ben rolls his eyes, “Just tell him to sod off. We all know very well that there’s no funny business going on.”  
“He doesn’t seem to understand that. And anyway, what makes you think I might drop everything to run off to see some foreign film?”  
“My dashing good looks, cunning wit, and the promise of an entertaining flight.” He replies cheekily.  
You practically snort at his response.  
“Right. More like snarky remarks and sarcasm by the kilo.”  
“Same thing, right?”  
“Practically.” You glance over at Tom. “So what exactly is the new movie about?”  
“You know,” he replies, “I’m not entirely sure. Joss said—”  
His statement is cut off by a dramatic gasp directly to your right. You turn wide-eyed to see what the fuss is about to find two teenaged girls standing scrunched together at the perimeter of your blanket, staring straight at Tom. One is whispering madly to the other, and you catch the words “Yes that’s them!” in the stream that is otherwise inaudible.  
You find it nerve-wracking and the tiniest bit tedious dealing with Ben’s fans, so you simply watch them cautiously as if they are about to pounce. Tom and Ben, on the other hand, are more in control of themselves.  
“Hello,” they say in unison, and the girls nearly pass out. No, really—you watch as their knees buckle a bit, and one of them sways to the left.  
The smaller one—red-headed—pulls herself quickly together and introduces herself and her friend, albeit a little swiftly.  
“Hi. I’m Tammy. This is Eliza. We were just walking through the park and saw you over here, and we were wondering if you would take a picture or two with us since we have nothing for you to autograph.” Her eyes flick to Ben and then to you. “All of you, we mean. Can we get a photo of us all together?”  
Ben and Tom readily agree, and you—not wanting to be in an impromptu photo shoot— offer to take the picture yourself. “Everyone’s face won’t fit into the shot even if we all crowd together, so I’ll take the photo from back here, and you all can stand a bit more comfortably.”  
Ben gets a conspiring grin on his face and pipes up, “Then I’ll take the next picture so they can have one with you as well, Prudence.”  
You shoot him a sharp look. You don’t want to, but the girls look so excited at the prospect that you can’t bear to tell them no. You sigh and smile, taking the iPhone from Tammy’s hand.  
The men stood on the outsides, and Tammy and Eliza were in the middle. They were all in the process of wrapping their arms around each other when Ben’s hips lurched forward a bit and he gave a startled, “Oh, hello!”  
Eliza, who had yet to say a single word turned bright red and started gushing apologies. Tom was laughing, and Tammy stared in amazement as Ben patted her friend’s back and told her there was no harm done.  
“On the count of three, then. One… two… three!” The picture turned out quite adorable, and the men released the girls as Ben stepped forward to retrieve the camera phone.  
“What just—” you start, but he cuts you off with a chuckle and shakes his head.  
“Your turn, Prudence,” he announces loudly.  
You give him a near-sneer and walk toward the group across the way. You stand between the girls and Tom stand to the left of them.  
“Scoot closer together,” Ben commands, and everyone shuffles together more snugly. Tammy’s head comes up to your collar bone while Eliza’s comes to your shoulder. They each have an arm wrapped around your waist as Ben counts down. You smile kindly toward the camera and squeeze the girls’ sides, relieved when you are finally allowed to let go.  
The teens get the phone back and pour out their thanks, dashing off across the park.  
You turn to Tom and Ben.  
“What did that girl do to make you so jumpy?” you ask.  
Ben’s face flushes a bit and he admits that she accidentally groped his bum.  
You laugh loudly at the thought. “Oh, I’m sorry, Benny. That shouldn’t be funny, but you were just molested by a seventeen year old girl.”  
“Yes, yes, very funny. Worse is sure to come, so I might as well get used to it.”  
You sigh in post-hysterics ecstasy and glance around the park.  
“We should probably go. Someone must have seen that, and if we don’t leave now we’ll be ambushed by more of your fans.” You laugh. “Let’s go for a walk.”  
“That’s a lovely idea,” Tom agrees.  
“I can’t, Pru. I have something to do this morning.”  
“But the walk was part of our arrangement!” you whine.  
“It’s just recently come up—an unexpected development. I’ll call later, I promise.”  
You huff and help him pick up the picnic goods and then fold up your blanket.  
“I’ll see you later then,” you say, leaning in to give him a hug.  
“Absolutely,” he turns to Tom, giving him a quick pat on the back. “I’ll talk to you later as well. Enjoy your walk.” And with that, he turned and walked back to his car.  
You look up—and up some more—at Tom’s face. “I guess it’s just you and me, then.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but I'd like to thank you guys for sticking with me and having patience. Thanks for the kudos and the comments; they urge me to write more. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Tom grins, “I suppose it is.”  
You drive your car to a seldom-used bike trail about forty-five minutes out of town, deciding that the city sidewalks were too exposed for your liking. On the way, you talk more about the movie Whedon is making.  
“It’s called the Avengers,” Tom says knowingly. “I’m told that there will be a few American actors from other Marvel movies in it as well. He didn’t say much about it, but I’m to get the script soon I think.”  
Your grip on the steering wheel tightens in excitement. “I can’t even explain to you how happy about this I am. I’ve followed most of Whedon’s shows and movies since he started writing them, and I’ve loved nearly all of them. The idea of him making another Marvel movie….” You trail off, slightly embarrassed by your own fangirling. “Well, I’m excited.”  
“I can see that,” he chuckles. “I’ve heard too much about myself and my work for the time being. Tell me about your job. You said you work in a pub?”  
“Own it, actually. It’s just a side job until I can find work in the entertainment business.”  
“Oh?”  
You smile, “Yeah, I studied theater in college.”  
“What is it that you want to do in the real world? Acting?”  
“Casting—I think it would be the most amazing job I could have. Just imagine discovering new actors and actresses and getting them small parts in a movie and watching them blossom and grow to be something great. I want very badly to help anonymous talents become stars. I want to be the girl who finds the next Colin Firth or Meryl Streep.”  
“You seem quite passionate about it,” he smiles.  
You put your car in park and take the keys out of the ignition, turning momentarily to look at Tom’s face.  
“I am. And I can’t wait to get started.” You turn away and step out of your car, stretching your legs and back after the long drive. You toss all of the belongings from your pockets, including your cell phone, into your console and instruct Tom to do the same.  
“Have you not been scouting for jobs yet?” he asks, confused. He unfolds himself from the car and walks around the front. You nod toward the trail entrance and lead him into the forest.  
“I have, but they all seem menial and unhelpful for my endgame. I know I can’t exactly afford to, but I’m holding out for something amazing.”  
“There are several agencies around here, I’m sure one of them has something to offer.”  
You laugh to yourself. “You would assume so, but I have yet to find one that isn't going to keep me at a desk for years before I’m promoted.”  
Tom hums his accord and changes the subject. “How long have you been in London?”  
“About two and a half years, but I've been in England for ten.”  
“Really! Where were you before here?”  
“Manchester. I transferred there for school when I was seventeen, and after getting degrees in business and theater, I moved here and took over the pub.”  
“So you’ve had the pub for how long?”  
“It’s been open for two years.”  
Tom’s eyes go wide. “You bought and started your own business immediately after moving into the city?”  
You shake your head and follow the fork in the trail leftward. “I used my college savings to buy the building when I was still in school and was fixing it up before I moved to town. The repairs and modifications were done shortly after I got here, and then I was able to get it on its feet.”  
“Ah,” he eloquently comments. “Very clever—very proactive.”  
You smile slightly. “Thank you. Ben comes by sometimes—you should come along, too, just to see if you think my work was worth it.”  
Tom nods and opens his mouth to make another comment, but talking about yourself has you bored—you’ve never cared much for divulging information about your past to others. You like your past to stay a secret so people can judge you only for what they see here and now. You raise a finger in a silencing motion to Tom and smile mischievously at him as your strides approach your favorite section in the trail.  
“Do you want to see something spectacular?” you ask quietly, excitedly.  
He looks at you suspiciously. “I’m not sure. Do I?”  
Your smile widens as you decide for him. “I hope you wore your running shoes,” you say, glancing down at his feet. The sight stops your train of thought momentarily.  
“Tom…” you start, still watching his feet.  
He raises an eyebrow at you. “Prudence?”  
You start again, talking over the giggles threatening to bubble out of your throat. “Tom, are you wearing Toms?”  
“Oh, ehehehe.” He sneaks a peek at his feet and shrugs. “Yeah, actually. They’re my favorite shoes.”  
A burst of laughter pours from your mouth before you can stop it and you shake your head. “Oh, that’s just perfect!” You collect yourself quickly. “Anyway,” you bend down to pull off your flip flops, grasping them in your right hand, “are you ready?”  
“For what?”  
“For something spectacular, of course!” You dash off the trail and into the trees to your left, leaving Tom staring dumbfounded behind you. “Come on! Don’t get lost!” You call over your shoulder.  
Before you’ve taken nine strides, you hear leaves and grass rustling behind you accompanied by Tom’s deep breathing. Your adrenaline and the smells and sounds all around you make it feel like you’re being chased. A tickling, tingling sensation starts at the small of your back warning you against danger, and you laugh, pushing yourself faster to run from your imaginary predator.  
The trees you were originally darting around are starting to thin, and your footsteps fall a little slower, allowing your less-than-dangerous hunter to follow more easily.  
“Where are we running off to?” he pants when he catches up to you.  
“My favorite place in the world,” you respond, grabbing his wrist and swerving to the right.  
Once on the right track, you drop his hand and run a little faster again, your heart hammering in your chest. The trees are thick again, and finally—after several more minutes of intense cardio—you reach your destination. You come to an abrupt stop at the sudden crest of the low cliff and, forgetting that you’re with someone who hasn’t been here before, you realize too late that Tom doesn’t know about the drop.  
Your eyes go wide. “Shit.”  
His footsteps are quick and heavy and he finally materializes, running at a deadly pace from the woods.  
“Prudence, where’d you—Oh!” his face breaks into a smile as he sets his sights on you, and you step in front of him, trying to stop him.  
“Wait! There’s a drop!”  
But he’s running too fast for such a short distance, and you are too small to stop his tall and toned figure. Your hands run into his chest and you press your weight against him in one last feeble attempt to slow his momentum, but to no avail. You both topple over the edge and your scream of surprise melts into Tom’s bellow of your name and echoes through the surrounding wilderness.  
“Hold your breath!” you shout as you push away from him, tucking yourself into a ball just before you crash into the water below you.  
The water is unusually warm due to the weather the past few weeks, and it welcomes you home as if it had missed you as much as you had missed being there. You grit your teeth against the pins and needles crawling across your arms and back and exhale a little to sink lower into the lake, hoping to put some cushion between you and Tom in the event that he accidentally lands above you. His shocked form splashes about three feet from you, pushing you backward in a small wave as you kick toward the surface for some much-needed oxygen. His head rises immediately after yours, his face equal parts appalled and excited.  
“Are you okay?” you say a little too loudly, thanks to the water in your ear canal.  
He nods vigorously and rubs his eyes. “What the hell did we just do!?”  
You remove the clip from your soaked hair and situate it on the front of your shorts so it’s grasping the denim’s waistline and then dip below the water briefly to somewhat tame your hair.  
“Barely escaped death,” you joke. You retrieve your floating shoes from the surface and begin paddling to the shoreline, Tom following suit. He strokes could easily surpass yours but instead of leaving you in his wake, he notices your labored movements and presses a hand to your back, helping you to shore alongside himself. All that running will have you sore in the morning—that’s a given.  
Once on the pebbled land surrounding the water, you seat yourself comfortably next to your guest and tilt your head to the side, silently begging the small pond in your ear to emerge.  
“That was amazing,” he mumbles. “Severely terrifying, but amazing nonetheless.”  
“Yeah, sorry about that. I forgot about it. Well, I didn’t forget that it was there, I just forgot that you’ve never been here. The only person I ever bring out here is Ben, and he knows about the drop-off. I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re okay? Nothing’s strained or sore or horribly mangled?” You smile painfully at him, slight concern bleeding into your features.  
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m fine. The drop was only, what, twelve feet?” he questions. “Are you alright?”  
You nod, wiggling your finger in your ear in hopes of dislodging the water inside. “Yes, I’ve done that too many times to count.” A little spurt of water leaks out, but you can still feel the rest of it in there. Deciding to forfeit for a while, you give up and lie back on the smooth sun-warmed rocks.  
Tom stays upright, glancing down at you. “Do you ever miss living in America?”  
Your eyes are closed against the afternoon sun, and you smile slightly to yourself. “Nearly every day.”  
“What’s your favorite thing about it?”  
“My little sister and the sunshine. We lived in Los Angeles when I was there, so it was really warm all the time, and I kind of miss that.”  
“I’ve been to Los Angeles; it’s very nice there.”  
Your body is fully relaxed now in the warmth of the sun, and instead of putting forth the effort for a real response, you hum your agreement.  
“How old is your sister?” he asks more quietly. You assume his volume dropped when he picked up on your lethargic state.  
“She’s only three years younger than me,” you nearly slur. “So she’s twenty-four now.”  
“Do you ever visit her?”  
“I go back every year for her birthday. Aside from that, no.”  
A shadow moves across your face and you think that Tom is nodding his head. “Visiting too often can take away the magic and fondness of going back.”  
“Yeah, that and I don’t like being away from home too often. I don’t trust anyone with running my business for more than a week.”  
“At least you still care deeply for your investment.”  
“She’s my Pride and Joy.”  
“You’re rather proud of it, too, then.” He laughs.  
“Well yeah. But that’s the name, too—Pride & Joy.”  
“Ohhh, very nice.”  
“Thanks. So what do you do in your down time? You know, when you’re not making movies and shows and doing interviews?” Your eyes open, and you roll to your left, propping yourself up on your elbow and looking up at the man seated next to you. His eyes flick to your face, and if you’re not mistaken, they skim quickly across your elongated form. Suddenly you’re hyper-aware of your clinging clothes and sodden state.  
“Mostly I read and spend time with family.”  
“What’s your favorite book?” You rise up and sit cross-legged, waiting for him to continue.  
“It’s not a book, technically. Shakespeare’s Hamlet is my favorite read. What’s yours?”  
You nod and hum appreciatively at his choice. “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”  
“A Wilde fan, I gather.”  
“He’s my favorite, alongside Tolkien.”  
“The Hobbit was a fantastic book.”  
“Definitely. He’s really great with detail, but he can get out of control with it. Reminds me of Mary Shelley sometimes.”  
His eyebrows rise on his forehead. “Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus?” He wants to know to which work you’re referring.  
“Frankenstein. I’m not sure I could get through another of her novels; too much detail for me.”  
Suddenly, he’s facing you very directly, and you find yourselves talking for the next two hours about literature and what makes a book exciting for each of you. His posture his hunched and concentrated as he delights in sharing all of his favorite authors and writings. You respond just as excitedly, divulging more information about your likes and dislikes than you have since you met Ben.  
“J.K. Rowling is one of the best things to have happened to modern literature!” you say sincerely, standing and walking back to the lake. He looks at you questioningly. “What?” you ask, “the rocks aren’t very comfortable. I’m gonna float around in the water for a bit. You’re welcome to join.”  
Tom follows, and then you’re off into another hour long spiel.  
Before you know it, you’re back on shore, and your clothes and hair are completely dried, and Tom’s hair is even curlier than before and sticking to the sides of his face, his bright eyes focused solely on you and your conversation. You feel a strange kind of connection to him. He’s intelligent, attractive, kind, entertaining, and he smells downright amazing. He has all the qualities of your current best friend, but there’s just some unknown factor that draws you to him differently than to Benny. It’s like some sort of intellectual magnetism that your best friend probably possesses but hasn’t begun wielding yet. Your smile has been practically stuck on your face for the past three and a half hours, and you can’t stop it. Not that you would, given the chance.  
You uncross your legs from in front of you and shake your head, smiling to yourself.  
Tom catches the smile and grins back. “What?”  
“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head more firmly.  
“Come on, did I say something amusing?”  
“No, I just like talking with you is all. You’re fun. I like it.”  
He puts a hand over his heart. “What a compliment coming from such a woman!” he exclaims, making you roll your eyes.  
“Oh, shut it.” Despite your best efforts, you can feel the blush sneaking across your cheeks.  
Tom smiles conspiratorially. He definitely sees your embarrassment and pleasure stained on your face, and you do the first thing you can think to distract him. You pick up the first flat rock you see and stand, preparing to skip it across the surface.  
You turn to look at him. “Find a rock. We’re going to see who’s better at this.”  
“I should warn you that I did this throughout my entire childhood and most of my young adulthood.” Suddenly he’s two meters away with a grin on his face, indicating grandly that you throw first.  
You turn so your left shoulder is facing the lake and pull your right arm back, positioning the stone in your hand just so, and you whip it forward forcefully. It skips about seven paces before finally sinking. You turn to Tom-who is already in position to skip-with a satisfied smirk on your face. He nods appreciatively. His arm swings forward so quickly that you immediately regret challenging him; you can see every muscle in his body tense and relax with each movement he makes. His calves are very, very toned, and his arms…. His face relaxes as he stands straighter, following the trail of his toss. His shoulders square off from their previously rounded status, and he turns to face you.  
You blink a few times in succession and realize that you’d been staring.  
He looks at you quizzically. “Did you see it?”  
Your eyes flick to the ripples in the water, his reaching about four feet past where yours had.  
Instead of answering his question you cover your mistake quickly. “It didn’t go much further than mine did. All those years of practice didn’t do you much good, did they?” you raise your eyebrows at him, your eyes gleaming.  
“I was under too much pressure!” he claims. “You were watching too closely. Your presence makes me nervous. My arm has been sore all day.” He pauses. “Any of these sound believable?”  
Your answering laugh is short and quiet. “Hardly. Better luck next time.”  
“Hmm. So there’s going to be a next time?”  
The infliction in his voice catches you off guard, but your mouth is answering before your brain can process it. “I don’t see why not. I’m going to wipe the floor with you eventually, and that means we’ll have to hang out again.”  
He smiles genuinely and laughs. “You can try.”  
You smile back and look up at the sun shining through the treetops. “We’ve been here for a while. We should probably get going. It’ll be dark in a few hours.”  
“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m starving anyway. Let’s get back to civilization and get some food in us.”  
You walk into the wood behind you go up, up, up the slope until it levels out, and you take a right. Tom walks beside you, staying silent. You sneak a glance over at him and your mind begins to wander.  
You see him before you—shirtless—wearing black slacks with an unknotted tie clinging to his shoulders. His hair is styled in wispy, unruly curls on his head. He smirks at you, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and making purposeful eye contact, making your knees weak and your head swim. He leans against a white wall that wasn’t there minutes ago and his hand runs through his tangled hair. The strong column of his neck is exposed entirely as he dips his head against the wall, and your eyes travel past his muscular shoulders to his broad chest and across his firm and rounded biceps. His tummy is flat and toned as a washboard with a blondish-ginger trail starting just below his bellybutton. It disappears behind the waist of his pants, and your tummy swirls at the thought.  
You breathe in deeply and smell his cologne, and it’s wonderful and citrus-y and musky, and a small keen of pleasure bubbles up in your throat, begging to be released into the air when Tom suddenly says, “I’m thinking Greek.”  
You swallow your almost-moan and turn to him, confused. “What?” You face your feet leftward and keep walking.  
“Greek food—I could really go for some hummus and something with feta cheese. What do you think?”  
“Um, yeah that sounds good I guess.”  
“If you’d rather eat something else,” he begins to offer.  
“No, no. It’s fine. Greek sounds good to me.”  
“Great. I know an amazing place in town.”  
By now, you’re exiting the forest right where you entered and walking back to your car. Tom gives you directions to the restaurant called “See You Next Gyro.” You actually snort when you hear the name.  
You ask him on the way about his family, and he talks highly of all his siblings, especially his little sister, Emma, of whom is is "supremely proud."  
Dinner is amazing, and you commend Tom heavily on his choice of eatery, to which he responds with a thankful nod and a mouthful of pita.  
“So tell me a little about your home life,” Tom suggests.  
You hate talking about personal things, but Tom’s a nice guy, so you indulge him.  
“I’ve lived in the loft with Logan for about a year now; I spend a lot of time reading and writing; and when I’m not doing either of those things, I’m with Benny or at the bar—sometimes both.”  
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that name—Logan. Fiancé, I assume?” he glances at your hands. “No ring, so boyfriend then?”  
“That’s a very loose term, but yes.” Your bitter reply surprises you, and you immediately regret saying anything.  
“Would you like to talk about it?”  
“Not really, but thanks.”  
“It might make you feel better. Sometimes just a simple talking session can take the weight of the world off one’s shoulders.”  
He looks so sweet and kind, and somehow you just know that he’s being sincere. And for some unholy reason it makes you want to pour out your heart.  
You sigh. “We’ve been together for two years now. It was really good when we started, but we just fell apart, you know? I mean, we used to be perfect for each other—total yin/yang compatibility. Now it just seems like it’s never going to last. Don’t get me wrong, I love him with all my heart and soul, but we’re both too hard-headed. I trust him too much, and he’s too guarded and paranoid, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t love me anymore. He never says it, and he hasn’t shown it in months.”  
Tom’s face is one of unbiased concern as he waits for you to continue.  
“He—he cheated on me once. And I think that’s when we started falling apart. I took him back because I didn’t want to be without him, but he was always wary of me after that—always paranoid, as if he was waiting for me to level the playing field and cheat, too. I never did, which is beside the point, but ever since then he’s been scared to death of me being at the bar later than usual and especially hanging out with Ben. And I’m always suspicious of his late night runs to the office and his quiet phone calls. We just don’t trust each other anymore, but we can’t seem to let go or get over it. We’re stuck in this horrible limbo and everything we’ve ever and never said is festering inside this wound we call a relationship, but we can't or won’t do anything about it. I’m really scared I’m going to lose him when all is said and done, and I don’t know what to do about it. I mean, I don’t know if we’re in love anymore, but the chemistry is still good. Like, I’ve never been so thoroughly fucked by anyone in the ways he’s done.” You feel your neck and face beginning to heat with the blush stealing across your features, and you push through quickly, hoping he’ll overlook that comment. “But it’s getting to the point that it’s not worth it anymore. We fight more than we talk to each other, for God’s sake. We actually break dishes during our arguments. His parents hate me, Ben hates him, and we might just hate each other, but we just can’t seem to let go.” You glance momentarily up to his face, since you find that you’ve been talking to your plate this whole time, and he’s nodding thoughtfully.  
“I don’t know. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced this before, but it’s like he’s the blanket that fans my life and helps it grow, but also the one that smothers it.” You shake your head slightly. “Sorry. Thanks for letting me vent; I appreciate it.”  
Tom swallows the bite in his mouth, and responds slowly and in a calculated manner, as if he’s afraid to offend you.  
“It seems like you have a highly unhealthy, yet very common relationship. There are a few ways this can go: You can go to counseling and have someone help you sort it out—expensive, initially awkward, not foolproof, but you get an unbiased third party; you can sit down and discuss it yourselves—inexpensive, probably going to be a heated discussion, but you might be more honest with yourselves than in therapy; or you can give up—no more fighting, no more sex, and a good chance of a lack of closure.”  
You take another bite of your food and nod grimly. “It’s difficult, is all. I love him, but I hate him, too. And I want to be with him, but I don’t want him around sometimes. It’s all messy and horrible inside my head.”  
“Just sit down with him and ask what he wants to do. You can only get so far without addressing the problem.”  
“Thanks, Tom. I really appreciate your input. Benny tries to help to, but mostly by telling me to leave him.”  
Tom shrugs, “Sometimes the best thing isn’t leaving, but working it out. You’ll never know until you’ve exhausted your options.”  
The waiter comes over with a pitcher of water to refill your glasses, and puts the check down on the table. Tom snatches it, much to your chagrin, and claims “You’ve used your car to bring us here, it’s the least I can do.”  
You’ve been with Tom for about six and a half hours now, including all the driving, and you both decide to call it a day.  
“Where did you park your car?” you ask, once you get back to the grounds at which you met.  
“I didn’t bring my car, actually. I jogged.”  
“You jogged. In Toms.” You repeat disbelievingly.  
“I said they were my favorites, not that they were sensible.”  
“Alright, then how do I get to your house from here?”  
Tom shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll jog back.” He smiles confidently, and it makes you smile too.  
“Are you sure?”  
“I’m positive.”  
“Alright,” you agree reluctantly.  
“But before I go,” he says quickly, “I need to get your number so I know where and when to meet for our next skipping challenge.”  
You smile genuinely at him and take his phone, typing your number into the device under a false name. “It’s not under Prudence. You’ll have to find it.” You smile again, mischievously, and hand it back to him.  
“How’d you know I loved searching games?” he jokes.  
“Just a hunch.”  
He steps out of the car and leans down to look at you. “We really should do this again soon; I’ve had a wonderful time.”  
“Absolutely. I’ll see you later. Oh, and try to not get mobbed by hormonal teens on the way home.”  
“I’ll try my hardest, Miss Henderson.” And with that, he closes the door and walks westward away from you, leaving you to check your phone before driving home. Logan has texted four times already, wondering where you are, and Ben texted as well, apologizing for leaving so soon this morning.  
\--Liar. You did that on purpose.  
\--I wouldn’t dare.  
\--Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow?  
\--Per usual. I’ll probably come by the bar tonight.  
Oh. The bar. It’s going to be opening in a few hours, and you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. You text him back.  
\--Come later. Going in late tonight.  
\--Late?  
\--I have to nap first, duh.  
\-- :o I take it things went well today then.  
\--I was up early and need sleep because I’m only now going home. Not because of your elaborate plan.  
\--If you say so.  
\--Just come in around 10:30.  
\--Will do.  
\--Kk. See you after a while.  
You text Alana, asking her to open the bar tonight and telling her you'd be in a few hours late. She responds promptly and positively, so you drive home quickly, hoping to get a decent nap in before work.  
As you parallel park in front of your loft, your phone jingles and you look to see a new message.  
\--Dionysus. God of wine, very clever.  
\--Well, I do rule the alcoholics.  
Like the schoolgirl you very much aren’t, you smile giddily at the number on your phone. Suddenly a decision is made without your permission, and you’re strolling through your front door and calling his name. Damn that nap to hell; more important things are at hand.  
“Logan,” you shout. He wanders in from the kitchen.  
“Where were—”  
“Logan, we need to have a talk. Right now.


	6. Chapter 6

The tone of your voice takes him by surprise, and his eyebrows knit together and he watches you steadily.  
“So talk.”  
“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”  
“It’s Ben isn’t it? I fucking knew it!”  
“Dammit, no. It’s not that I’m cheating or that I want to. It’s that I’m tired of this broken routine we’ve established. We don’t communicate anymore. We don’t do anything but argue and fuck, and I’m tired of it. We’re not in love anymore, and we both deserve better than this.”  
You walk past him to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water, uncapping it and taking a sip. You breathe deeply against the ache in your chest that warns you of your accelerated heart rate.  
“Who are you to tell me I’m not in love?”  
“You don’t tell me you love me. You never touch me unless it’s to shove me out of your way or against a wall. And when was the last time we talked civilly or about literature or anything normal?” Tears are trying hard to escape from your eyes, but you won’t let them.  
“Fine,” he growls. “You want to give up? We’ll give up! We’ll throw away everything we’ve built and worked for and just walk the hell away.”  
“Everything we’ve worked for? We haven’t worked for anything since you cheated! You’ve been terrified ever since your fuck-up that I would take revenge on you, and it’s become a wedge between us—one that you can’t seem to get past. I stayed with you, Logan. I loved you, and I didn’t want to leave you so I forgot about the pain and tried to make it better, but you wouldn’t let me. You STILL won’t let me!”  
“So logically, giving up is the solution.”  
“I think it is. We don’t work together anymore. How are we supposed to make it like this?”  
He’s silent for a long time, and you feel your heart breaking. It feels like someone is suffocating you, and cruelly—relentlessly—twisting your insides. You recap your bottle and place it on the counter next to you.  
His warm woodsy smell takes over your senses as he moves closer to you. His face is shuttered, his jaw locked. He looks at you somewhat impassively, and suddenly his hand is in your hair, and his mouth is on yours, dominating you and proving that there’s passion between you. That’s something to stick around for, right? You almost give in, but then Tom’s voice, clear as a summer sky, is ringing through your head.  
‘It seems like you have a highly unhealthy, yet very common relationship.’  
Your relationship is very unhealthy. You’ve known that for a long time. The only way it will get better is to either walk away or to work it out, and kissing him back isn’t going to end with either of those things.  
You brace your hands on his firm chest and push, turning your face away from him. His hand tightens in your hair as he tries to pull you closer, but you stop him.  
“We can’t fix it like this, Logan. I’m not doing it again.”  
You step out of his embrace and walk determinedly to your room upstairs, packing up some toiletries and clothes, begging yourself not to cry.  
Logan is still in the kitchen, almost exactly where you left him, when you come back downstairs.  
“I’m going to Benedict’s tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll talk more.”  
“Babe…” his voice doesn’t crack; he doesn’t sound desperate or angry or panicked; he sounds almost questioning, nearly lost.  
You grit your teeth against the oncoming tears and repeat just one word. “Tomorrow.” And then you’re out the door with your small suitcase tucked into the passenger seat of your sensible hybrid car.  
Texting and driving has never been your style, but you whip out your phone and type a quick message to Ben.  
\--Busy tonight?  
The reply is immediate, true to your friend’s nature.  
\--Sort of. Why do you ask?  
\--I think I left Logan. Can I stay at yours if you’re going out?  
Your eyes flick swiftly between the road and your device, keeping equal attention on both. You approach a red light and read your texts while you wait patiently for permission to move again.  
\--Of course. I’m home now.  
\--Almost there.  
You stamp down the horrible feelings of guilt and pain and loneliness, and drive forward.  
You make it to Ben’s in-town flat without a horrible accident, and he’s sitting on his front step when you get there.  
“That was fast,” he comments. “Were you texting and driving?”  
“I’ve done much worse things. What are you doing tonight? I don’t want to intrude on anything important.”  
“I was going to have a night in with a friend; I sent him home,” he says dismissively. He looks at you intently, concern rolling of him in waves. “Are you alright?”  
You feel your face start to crumple and you try to nod, but your breath catches and you find yourself shaking your head anyway.  
“Oh, Pru. Come along.” He ushers you inside and leads you to the comfortable leather couch in his sitting room. He seats himself next to you and wraps an arm around your shoulder while you weep into his chest and waits patiently to hear what happened.  
His large hand rubs soothing circles into your back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for staining his previously pristine shirt with your tears.  
“I decided that he and I deserve better than what we have,” you sniffle.  
“And it’s like we’ll never be back to the way we were, not after everything that’s happened, and I told him that. I don’t think he wanted me to leave, but he didn’t stop me. We just don’t know how to talk things out anymore.” The tears are silent now, but streaming steadily down your cheeks as you lean against your best friend. His rhythmic heartbeat and steady breathing calms you slightly as you relay the entirety of the argument to him.  
“I think it’s best, Pru. You don’t belong together anymore—you haven’t for a while.”  
“But I love him” you say, and the words are caught between a whine and a wail.  
Benny strokes you’re your hair and shushes you. “I know, cher. I know you hurt now, but it’ll work out in the end. You’ll see.”  
You sniffle continuously as you text Alana and tell her you won’t be going in tonight.  
\--Complications. Call in Alex to help??  
You wait several minutes for her reply.  
\--He’s got us covered. You ok?  
\--I’m fine. Thanks. Call if anything major happens.  
\--You got it.  
For the first time since you opened the bar, you put your phone on vibrate and stay in on a work night.  
Four border-alcoholic hours later, your eyes are puffy and red, your nose stopped up and swollen, as you lean on Ben’s shoulder and teeter on the edge of consciousness. Crying has always been a sleep-inducer for you, and no matter how heart-wrenching the situation, tonight is no different; the scotch only served to increase your drowsiness. Your eyes are fighting madly—and losing miserably—to stay open when Benny turns his face to you and kisses the top of your head.  
“Do you want to sleep now?” he asks slowly. He drank only enough to keep you company as you polished off his bottle, so his speech isn’t slurred, but it’s quite close.  
You shake your head. “I want to see Logan,” you whisper.  
“We’ve both drank too much for either of us to take you back, and we’re not calling a taxi—they’re too expensive.” You know he’s only making excuses to save you from yourself. God knows he could afford a cab ride across town.  
“How can you put a price on love?”  
“Come along, cher. Let’s get you to bed.”  
Somehow the term ‘cher’ makes you melt. It’s French for ‘darling,’ you remember fondly, and you thank your lucky stars to have friend like Ben who cares enough to call you something so cute. The more you think about it, the more you realize how precious he is, and you tell him just that.  
“You’re precious, too, dear. Where are you going?” he asks as you try to stumble away from him in the hallway. “The guest room is this direction.” He indicates his meaning by tugging your hand slightly.  
“Please don’t leave me ‘lone t’night, Benny. Please cuddle with me.”  
After a pause, he sighs his acquiescence and follows you down your original path to his master bedroom, where you plop yourself down on his bed quite ungracefully.  
“Did you bring clothes or do you need to borrow some?”  
“Th’re in m’car.” You’re laying down on the bed facing the door, and the whole room is spinning. Ben says something else, but you don’t catch it because you’re concentrating too hard on making everything still. You blink, and he’s gone. You hope desperately that he’s coming back; the idea of him leaving you alone is a tremendous weight on your heart.  
Suddenly the room is spinning again, but this time much slower than last, and you realize Ben is leaning over you, murmuring something. You must have fallen asleep. What’s he saying? Something about clothes? Your question is answered when he unbuttons your shorts and tugs them off and peels off your shirt. He lifts your upper body—you try to help, but it’s very, very hard—and leans you against the headboard as he painstakingly redresses you in your sleep shorts and t-shirt. Somehow he manages to tuck you under the covers all by himself, and then he slides in on his side and lies on his back. You roll toward him and cuddle against his warmth, and he wraps his arms around you.  
“There’s a trash bin beside the bed if you’re nauseous.”  
You smile against his chest. “Th’nks, Ben. Love you. Not throwing up.”  
You can’t help but fight sleep. Your mind won’t stop racing, no matter how hard you try to silence it, and you turn on the lamp on the bedside stand, to Ben’s disgruntlement.  
“You aren’t tired?” he asks.  
You shrug, unsure of your assessment of yourself. “I wanna be awake for li’l bit longer.”  
He sighs slowly and silently, and you drum your fingers against his bare sternum. Your eyes wander, and eventually you’re playing mental connect the dots with the freckles on his torso.  
“If you draw a line from this one,” you indicate your intended position. “To this one, around here to that one,” your fingers slide around his neck and pectorals. “It looks kinda like a heart.”  
He shoos away your hand, not roughly.  
“Oh, I forgot. Ben doesn’t like his freckles,” you slur grandly. “I don’t see the problem. They’re like stars on your skin. If you had two more right… here, you’d have a dipper on you. You’re made of constellations, Benny.” You smile up at him kindly. “And they’re all very pretty.”  
He smiles fondly down at you and gives a simple, “Good night, Prudence,” before turning out the light and tugging you close to keep you silent and complacent.  
You wake up the next morning curled against Logan’s bare chest with your left leg thrown over his flannelled lower body, the right one stretched along the length of him. You groan and experimentally move your tongue. Yes—very dehydrated indeed. You stretch your upper body and realize that you’re still a little drunk.  
You fist a hand in your hair, begging the world to stop feeling like a Tilt-A-Whirl, and cuddle closer to him. He smells less like shampoo and cologne now and more like his skin and hair and favorite scotch, and you love it. You groan again, wishing that sleep would pull you under once more and rid you of your headache, and you tighten your legs to scoot closer to him. You’re very close to unconsciousness and tilt your head up, brushing your nose along his neck and jaw. You playfully bite and then kiss the exposed flesh of his neck before letting your head fall back against his shoulder, a smile dancing on your lips. He inhales deeply and mumbles in his sleep, not quite sounding like himself. You are prepared to ignore it until you feel something below your left leg shift under the covers.  
What? He’s sleeping. What could he possibly--? Oh. Yes, that happens almost every morning to Logan, and sometimes you’re more than willing to make the best of it. Your hand snakes across his chest and you sit up to watch his expression as he wakes up. Except—your hand freezes, and you slowly cradle it to your own chest, scooting away from the male companion next to you—it’s not Logan. You stayed the night at Ben’s last night, and you nearly just molested him.  
You very carefully extract yourself from his bed, taking extra care to fold the covers down so he won’t get cold. The covers settle across his abdomen, and Little Ben—or Big Ben, more accurately—is standing at attention and waiting for attention as well. You flush and turn your back to flee the room. There’s no way you’re going to let Benedict wake up to find you staring at his todger, let alone allowing him to discover that you almost touched it. Several years ago, you would have killed to wake up to that sight, but those days are long gone, and the thought of it now makes you feel unclean. You stop in the bathroom to grab some painkillers out of the cabinet and then skitter down the hall to get some water in your system, nearly tripping over the rug on your way.  
His kitchen is fully stocked—no surprise there—and you eat some toast, having no idea how long it will be before Ben wakes up. You shuffle your way to the lounge and settle into the couch, sipping slowly on your glass of cold water and munching the toast, being very careful to avoid upsetting the delicate state of your tummy; the clock tells you it’s eleven in the morning; you slept late. It’s a good thing you had no plans for that morning.  
Your phone is still sitting on the table where you left it last night, and you grab it to check your messages.  
Four messages, one missed call, one voicemail.  
The missed call is from your mom, and you assume the voicemail is as well.  
You’re right. It’s a call from 8:03 this morning, and she tells you that you looked “pretty as always, and the dress is gorgeous, if a little revealing.” She rambles on about your sister, Lucy, and tells you how well your sibling is doing at work, as if you hadn’t talked to her less than a week ago. The voicemail ends with a loving, “Anyway, I just wanted to call and see how you were. I miss you. Call back as soon as possible. I love you, baby girl. Talk to you soon.”  
You shake your head fondly. Leave it to your mother to have a whole conversation with your voicemail. You decide to call her back when you’re less inebriated.  
Next is text messages. One from Alana, saying there’s “No need to worry. The bar close went smoothly. Feel better.” She’s not the most intuitive woman in the world, but anyone who knows you is aware that if you miss work without at least a week’s notice that something is seriously wrong. Some section of your brain is supremely relieved that nothing disastrous happened at the bar, because you’d have been unreachable with your phone downstairs.  
Another text is from Logan. Your heart flip flops in your chest at the contact name, and your stomach drops. Just one text. That’s all you see from him. This is beyond unusual, and it means that he knows you’re serious about leaving.  
\--I’ll see you sometime today?  
It was sent at 10:00am on the dot. Not a statement—a question. He’s as serious and unsure about all this as you are. There’s a deep sigh from down the hall as you reply—Ben breathing deeply in his sleep.  
\--Yes. You’ll be home at 6?  
You know he’s at work and that the reply will probably take a while, so you check the rest of your texts while shuffling noises come from Ben’s room.  
The last two are from Tom. Wow. You almost forgot about him in all this turmoil. You chuckle to yourself; as if anyone could really forget about Tom Hiddleston, even in the middle of an emotional hurricane.  
The first text is him responding to your message last night.  
\--Technically, they even make offerings to you, if you number their paychecks among the sacrifices.  
That makes you smile. And then one from about half an hour ago.  
\--It’s a beautiful day out today. Would you like to go out for lunch? Benedict should come, too. Maybe he’ll stay for the whole affair this time. Lol.  
You smile so broadly that your face hurts. Not because Tom asked you and Ben to lunch, but because he put ‘Lol’ in a text. You can’t help it. You laugh. No matter how trying of a night you had, no matter how tilted the world feels today, no matter how heartbroken you are, you have to be amused that even the classiest, most prestigiously educated British men say “Lol.”  
“Something funny?” Ben asks. You turn with a smile on your face to see him with and old college t-shirt on, still wearing his plaid bottoms from last night. His eyes are bleary with sleep, and his curls sit atop his head in total anarchy. You force away the memory of almost sexually assaulting him this morning. But hey, you give yourself credit, you could do much worse than Benedict Cumberbatch.  
“People surprise me sometimes. I wouldn’t suspect Tom of being someone who uses the phrase ‘lol’ in text.”  
His eyebrows rise. You can’t tell if it’s from surprise or interest. Maybe both.  
“You’re texting Tom?” His baritone voice is much lower and gravelly when it’s laced with sleep.  
“Well, not exactly. He asked if we wanted to go to lunch today. I haven’t answered yet.”  
“We?” He calls as he walks down the hall to his kitchen.  
“Yeah. Wants to know if you and I want to meet for lunch today.”  
“Where?” You hear him opening and closing cabinets and drawers, and instead of shouting and hurting your head, you patiently wait for him to return. He does so with a mug of tea in hand.  
“Dunno. He didn’t say.”  
“Do you want to go?”  
You shrug, he sips his drink. He seats himself on the chair adjacent to the couch on which you’re perched. It’s one of those big, comfy leather reclining chairs that practically absorbs your whole lower body when you sink into it. You love that chair very much; it’s almost like sitting in a high end, over-sized beanbag. “I don’t really feel like going out or being around anyone, but it’s probably better to keep my mind occupied than to wallow until Logan comes home.”  
Ben nods. “It’s up to you. I have no plans today outside of laundry and a workout, so if you want to go we will.”  
You mull it over. You could stay home by yourself and allow grief and anxiety wash over you for the next six plus hours, or you could have lunch with your best friend and your new friend, and maybe keep your troubles at bay.  
Your response is short.  
\--What did you have in mind?  
You look to Ben. “I’m going to shower since we apparently have plans for the afternoon.”  
You finish the last of your toast, already feeling marginally better for the lack of alcohol on your stomach. You put the empty water glass in the kitchen and stop by to give Ben a hug.  
“Thanks for last night, Benny.”  
“You’re welcome, Pru.”  
The text comes in as you’re turning on the shower.  
\--I’m thinking Indian.  
\--Oh, yum. I like that idea.  
You silently thank any listening deities that you have a strong stomach that isn’t very prone to sickness after nights of binge drinking; you might have a swimmy feeling sometimes afterward, but you can always keep your food down even if it’s spicy. Your take the longest, hottest shower you can stand, letting each droplet of water ease away a little more tension and wash away another memory. It's impossible to avoid thinking about the inevitability of your ending relationship with Logan. You love him. Some part of you will forever. But your time with him is coming to an end, and it's a terrifying feeling-- you were supposed to marry this man and have his beautiful, dark-haired cockney babies, but instead you're nearing the end of the rope, and though you want nothing more in the world than to hold on forever, it's all slipping away from you. You hardly feel refreshed when you step out of the shower, but you push the negative thoughts aside and try to get ready as cheerfully as possible. The mirror is fogged when the curtain opens, and you sit on the floor, back against the cold wall, and text Tom back as you wait for it to clear. By the time the mirror is usable you have the name and address of the restaurant you'll be going to, and then you start your daily routine. You put on as little makeup as possible-- you’ll probably end up crying most of it off later anyway. You slip on your skinny jeans and your Guns N Roses t-shirt and leave your hair down.  
Ben is ready to go when you exit the guest bathroom. He showered and shaved in his master bath, it seems.  
You put your flats on and grab your car keys. Ben doesn't bring attention to the fact that you spent almost two hours in the bathroom. You take one look at him and can tell that he knows why. “We’re doing Indian. That okay?” You already know the answer.  
Ben smiles and nods his consent. “My favorite.” He ushers you out the door and clicks it shut behind you.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom is already at the restaurant when you arrive, and the hostess ushers you to his table after she gives Ben a fully appreciative once-over. He notices and blushes, and you can’t help but snicker. The people of Britain might very well believe that he’s in a relationship, but that won’t stop them from blatantly admiring him. You inhale, preparing to tell him just that.  
“Shut it,” he whispers.  
You shake your head innocently. “I haven’t said anything.”  
“You were about to make a snarky comment.”  
“Me? Of course not!” You try your best try to look taken-aback.  
He scoffs and gently shoves you into the booth opposite Tom and slides in next to you.  
“Hello there.” Tom’s smile is as bright as midnight in New York City.  
“Morning,” your smile is much more subdued, but no less genuine.  
“Afternoon, more like,” Ben smoothly interjects. “How are you today, Tom?”  
“Wonderful. Got several errands finished. How was your morning?”  
You smile to yourself. What morning? You got up, ate just enough so the world wasn’t off kilter anymore, and then took off down the street to meet him here.  
“Short,” Ben remarks. “We slept rather late today.”  
Tom’s eyebrows rise as he looks toward you, and then they knit together in sympathy.  
“I’m very sorry for the trouble you’re going through, Prudence.”  
“Excuse me?” You look to Ben. What the hell had he told this man?  
“Tom was at the house last night when you messaged me,” he explains. “I’d told him we’d reschedule because a friend was having a bit of trouble.”  
And he just realized that friend was you because you slept over.  
“I didn’t tell him what happened,” Ben rushes.  
You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. All my friends are bound to find out eventually.”  
The look on Tom’s face implies that he wants to question you, but thankfully the waitress unwittingly comes to your rescue. This particular Indian restaurant is high-end and generally family-run, you believe. The woman who comes to take your order is dressed in a traditional, richly-colored red and gold sari that completely covers her body from just above her toes to just below her collar bones, her shoulders also draped in vibrant cloth. It flows slightly as she walks toward your table; her clothing is absolutely lovely. She’s young, probably seventeen or eighteen, with raven hair pulled back into a perfect bun, a straight-edge nose dropping down from dark, softly arched eyebrows. Her lips were just a bit lighter than her overall complexion, and they pulled back in a smile to reveal a set of very white teeth.  
“Good afternoon. My name is Adrika.” She pronounces her name Ahd-rick-ah. Her Indian accent is heavy, but you can definitely tell she’s acquiring an English accent as well.  
“May I bring you some beverages before you order?” Her simple smile is very endearing.  
You flip open the drink menu, slightly embarrassed that you hadn’t looked yet, and make a quick decision. “I’ll have a glass of water and a mango lassie, please.”  
Adrika nods and scribbles on her notepad. Ben and Tom each order a glass of water, and the young girl strolls away to prepare your drinks.   
“I don’t mean to pry, Prudence, but what happened last night that had you so upset?” Apparently Adrika can’t save you from Tom’s interrogation even if she means to.  
You feel your head shaking as you glance down, building a dam of determination against the dreadful river threatening to drown you. “Nothing really. I just took some of your advice.”  
He looks very concerned as he studies you, and you decide to change the subject. “What did you do last night after I accidentally kicked you out?” Hopefully your cheerful façade would tell him to back off the subject.  
“I watched Dead Poets Society, actually.”  
“Do you watch a lot of American movies?” You browse through the menu, encouraging the men to do the same, and listen for his response.  
Tom nods. “Yeah, the humor’s very similar sometimes—as far as the irony and sarcasm goes, anyway— so it can be like watching a regular British movie without the accents. And I love that, it’s a fun change.”  
Adrika returns with your drinks—that was fast—and places the waters on the table. “I will bring your lassie as soon as it’s been made,” she promises.   
You smile and nod, “Thank you.”  
“Are you ready to order?”  
You glance to Ben and Tom, who still look like they haven’t decided. You look back to your waitress.  
“Could you give us just a couple more minutes?” you ask as politely as possible.  
She smiles, “Of course.”  
Tom faces you one more, his menu flat on the table. His mouth opens, and he gets half a syllable out before you raise your hand and interrupt him.  
“No more talking until you’ve decided what you’re having.” Your voice is stern, but not rude and you smile indulgently at him.  
He returns the smile with interest and studies his menu intently.  
Eventually, Adrika returns and you all give your orders. You decide on the Chicken Saag, one of your personal favorites—Benny gets Chicken Tikka Masala—he asks for extra spices— and Tom gets Kaali Daal, a dish he’s never tried before.  
Your waitress brings your lassie to the table and promises that your lunch will be available shortly.  
Conversation is made again, and somehow you all end up on the topic of how you and Ben met.  
This is one of your favorite things to talk about, mostly because you are privy to a version of Benny that a lot of people don’t know. You’ve known him for years. You knew him when he was still dashing about on a stage in a university auditorium—back before he grew into his unorthodox smile and his long, gangly form and when his face was still round and rosy.  
“He was a ginger when we first met—sideburns and all!”  
Tom smiles and asks Ben, “When were you a ginger?”  
“Years and years ago. I was young, and my hair was much lighter then than now.” Ben chuckles.  
“That’s an understatement.” You interject. “It was like a blondish-red—really, really curly. It always looked like it was only just under control. Except his sideburns, of course—he always kept them well-groomed,” you reminisce fondly. “And he was always touching them! Even now, if you watch any of his interviews, his hands almost always end up at the side of his face. He’s often got his fingers stroking his sideburns.”  
Tom leans forward. “I’d love to see Benedict with a retro hairdo,” he teases. “Do you have any photos?”  
“Actually, I might.” You smirk at Ben, who is too busy rolling his eyes and looking around for his food to respond.  
“Even if I can’t find mine, the internet has plenty, let me tell you that.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“There are loads of pictures if you Google him.”  
“You search him on the internet?” Tom looks confused.  
“Yeah, and she loves to tell me all about it.” Ben seems to be reinvested in the conversation, abandoning hope that his lunch might soon arrive.  
You shrug. “Why not? It keeps me updated on how people feel about him—and me, too—and I also get a good feel of how many people will be following his career and going to more plays or watching his new series. I just like to be prepared as much as possible for each turnout. Not to mention, there are some ridiculous fanfics, and I get a kick out of reading them.” Your head cocks a little to the side, and you smile conspiratorially. You may not be his girlfriend, but sometimes you act like an overbearing one, and that’s even funnier to you than Ben’s college hair.  
“Don’t ask,” Ben drawls as Tom asks, “What’s a fanfic?” His mouth forms the word as if it’s from another language—strange, unfamiliar. Which, you suppose, it sort of is.  
Ben sighs exasperatedly.  
“Fan fiction—it’s the stories or sometimes even novellas that fans write about their favorite characters. They can be about cartoon characters, like in anime; characters from their favorite TV show or movies; or even the actors that play any of them.”  
“They write stories about it?”  
“Yeah. I imagine that it’s what happens when they write down their daydreams. Some are really good, actually. They’re all written, I’m assuming, by amateurs. Sometimes the writing reflects that, and others,” you pause to take a drink of water. “and other times it’s incredible work—nearly flawless.”  
“I might look into it.”  
You try to stifle your smile, and Ben leans forward across the table as your waitress returns with your meals.  
“Don’t—honestly. You’ll hate yourself.”   
You laugh at Tom’s expression and thank Adrika for your food as she saunters away, and admire her clothes once again.  
“Most people can’t handle it. I think I can because I’m not in most of them. There are some about me and Ben that, well, get graphic,” you finish lamely. “But aside from those few, basically I’m the best friend or girlfriend that Ben leaves for another woman—or sometimes a man—if I’m in them at all.”  
Ben’s following laughter isn’t much more than a grunt. “I’m telling you,” he shakes his head from side to side, the soft, dark curls rustling against his forehead with the vigorous movement, his cupid bow lips curved into a wry smile. “You’ll regret looking.” He grabs his fork, almost defiantly, and starts eating.  
Tom hesitantly takes his own fork in hand and does the same, as if he’s weighing the pros and cons of taking a peek.  
Meanwhile, your thoughts start to wander, preventing you from remotely listening to the men’s conversation around you. You idly eat your food while your mind whirs with apprehension. What’s going to happen? Will you finally walk away from Logan? Will he let you? What if he says he’ll change—will you believe him? You sigh—so many questions and the only way to get an answer is to confront your scariest demon.  
You aren’t necessarily frightened of being single. It isn’t as if you’ll be entirely lonely—Ben and Mother will always be there for you, and you’re beginning to suspect that Tom will be, too, if you ask it of him. No, it isn’t the loneliness that worries you. It’s the idea that no one will want you again. You’re not past your prime by any means, but there’s a reason Logan was the first man you’d loved so thoroughly. There’s a reason he fell for you, too. What if no one else likes the way you play with your hair when you’re nervous, or speed a little when you’re listening to your favorite music, or how your face reflects every emotion you feel when reading a good book? What if someone else never gets as excited about comic books and sci-fi movie marathons like you do? And will there be another guy who gives you butterflies in your tummy just by touching your hand or smiling at you? If there is, will he give you kisses on your forehead when you’re sad or rub your back when you’re sick? It’s possible, but not probable.  
By the time you realize the men at the table are staring at you, you’ve finished most of your meal. You take a sip of water and look at Ben questioningly.  
“What?”  
Ben shakes his head infinitesimally, knowing very well why you’re distracted. “Tom was just telling us that his script has arrived.”  
You try to look politely interested in the conversation, but you’re willing to bet that you aren’t doing a very good job. Tom nods smiling around the morsel in his mouth.  
“I’ll let you read it, if you’d like.”  
Well, that grabs your attention.  
“Oh, man. Really!?” Your smile is so wide you have to bite your lip to keep it from crawling off your face. And then a thought suddenly strikes you. You shake your head, frowning. “Wait, no. I still want to see it in theaters.” There wouldn’t be much excitement in seeing the premier if you already knew what would happen, but good heavens you want to peek.  
Tom shrugs. “I’ll let you decide at your leisure. If you change your mind you’ll only need to call.”  
You smile genuinely at him. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”  
“Is it any good?” Ben asks.  
“Absolutely, in my opinion. Whedon has a very… unique form of writing.”  
“I only have one question,” you interject.  
Tom splays his hands in the air in front of him, gesturing that you should ask.  
“Is Henry Pym in it?”  
“Ant-Man?”  
“Well, yeah. He and Wasp founded the Avengers.” It would only make sense that they should be in it.  
Tom smiles, perhaps at your knowledge of comics, perhaps at the ludicrously excited expression on your face. “I’m grieved to report that he isn’t, nor is Wasp.”  
You grunt your displeasure, unladylike as it may be. “Well then who’s in it?” You can’t be bothered to care if you sound personally offended.  
“Captain America, Thor, Loki,” he pauses and gives a sly smile, indicating himself. “Iron Man, Black Widow, The Hulk, and Hawkeye.”  
“Oh, man. Hawkeye and Black Widow are both in it? Is she a baddie or is she on his side? Oh my god, does he kill her?”  
“Are you sure you don’t want to just read the script, Pru?” Ben asks cheekily.  
“I’m just concerned for the characters.” You stick your tongue out at him.  
“I’ll only tell you that he doesn’t kill her. I’m not giving away any spoilers. Otherwise, what’s the point of seeing it in theaters?”  
You nod and then sigh. “I’ve read too many comic books to have access to an Avengers script,” you groan and chuckle at yourself.  
“That’s quite the understatement, dear.” Ben nudges you gently with his shoulder.  
You smile at him, and as suddenly as your distraction had arrived, the illusion of happiness evaporates. Logan is at the forefront of your mind again, this time refusing to be ignored. You exhale and run your fingers through your hair, attempting to smile but missing your genial mark by a mile.  
Tom, ever the gentleman, notices and excuses himself to use the restroom.  
Ben leans closer to you and speaks in soft tones. “If you want to talk about it—”  
“That’s really not necessary, Benny. But thank you—really.” Ben is there for you when you need him, and vice versa, but you’ve come to learn that even the most gentlemanly men dislike talking about personal topics, no matter how emotionally entangled with the ailing they may be.  
“If you change your mind…” he trails off.  
“I know. Thank you.” You press your shoulder momentarily against his, warmly smiling down at the table. You poke quietly at the remaining food on your plate as Ben eats the last of his own, and Tom returns to the table just before your waitress does.  
She asks if you’d like to order anything else, which all of you politely decline, before placing your respective checks on the table and gliding away to presumably wait on other customers.  
You put your cash—including a gracious tip—inside the check presenter and take one more long drink from your water glass. “I’d better be going. Thanks for the lunch date, guys.”  
“How are you getting back?” Ben asks; you rode in his car to the restaurant.  
“I’ll call a taxi. It won’t be very expensive; you don’t live far away.”  
Ben frowns slightly but stands to let you slide out of the booth, and Tom stands to wish you goodbye.  
“I’ll see you later, Prudence. You can come over again tonight if you’d like.” Ben gently pats just below your shoulder blades. He’s usually more affectionate than that. Perhaps it’s the almost family-like atmosphere that makes him unwilling to hug you like normal. You squint at him confusedly, and he avoids your eyes suspiciously.  
“I’ll let you know. I’ll come by either way; I’ll need my toiletries if I stay at mine. Now give me a hug before I hit you.” He obliges with a small laugh.  
You turn to tell Tom goodbye as Ben seats himself once again, and the man in front of you grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. Briefly, you wonder if he’s going to do this often, as he’s already done it before.  
“Until next time,” he promises.  
You smile and chuckle at him. That very gesture would have been cheesy on anyone else in the world, but somehow he made it work. Determined to be just as dramatic, you grab the edge of your t-shirt and curtsey deeply, ignoring the questioning looks from the surrounding customers.  
“My heart will ail until then,” you reply in your best Old English accent.  
Instead of taking offense, as many might have, he smiles widely down at you and laughs outright.  
“You’re quite the comedian.”  
“I’d say I try, but it all comes naturally.” You smirk at him.  
“I can see that very clearly.”  
You smile at him and turn to Ben, waving goodbye. “I’ll see you guys around. Have a good afternoon!”  
It’s about two in the afternoon, so you have a few hours before Logan will be back. There’s a lot that could be done in that time, but there’s nothing you can think to do that might keep your mind busy to your standards. You could stay at home and try to read or watch movies, but the chances that you’ll actually be able to concentrate on your book or the telly for that long are very slim. It wouldn’t hurt to get some laundry out of the way.  
As you hail a cab, you decide to get groceries today as well as finish what laundry is at the flat.  
A bright yellow car pulls over to let you in, and the driver is a rather greasy-looking man who looks you over not once, but twice.  
“Where to, lovely?” His voice is just as slimy as the slicked-back hair on his head.  
You try to hide your grimace and give him Ben’s address, hoping this ride would be over quickly.  
You pull out your cell phone to distract yourself on the drive back to Ben’s and find another text from Logan.  
\--Yeah. Might be earlier. Not sure yet.  
You sigh, not knowing how to respond past a mere “Okay,” so you exit out of your texts and stare out the window at the slowly passing buildings.  
The car rolls to a stop at the light and the driver turns around to leer at you. You don’t take it as a compliment; he looks like the kind of creature to chase anything with female bits and a pretty smile.  
“Not from ‘round here, are you, darling?” he asks in a manner that probably sounds seductive in his own head.  
“Not quite,” you say briskly, attempting to sound as polite as possible.  
He stares at you, an evaluating look laced with slow comprehension. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
You nod your head forward. “Light’s turned green.”  
He frowns and reluctantly faces the windshield, moving with traffic. Thankfully, you were already two blocks from Ben’s house, and you’re silently relieved that there aren’t any more stop signs or lights before you reach his apartment.  
You’ve got your money out of your pocket and held in front of you as he pulls up to the curb. You make sure to tell him to stop a full block from your destination, solely because of how uncomfortable he makes you feel.  
“This isn’t the address you gave me.”  
“I’ve just moved—not used to the change yet. I keep mixing up the numbers. Keep the change.” Your words kind of spill out of your mouth. It’s not often that you’re nervous, but this man emits a kind of aura, and it’s not a comforting one.  
“Sure you don’t need a ride somewhere else?” he asks as he takes the money from your hands, his eyes lingering on your face.  
“I’m positive, thanks.” You open the door and exit as quickly as possible, walking toward one of the buildings as if you live in it. You wait until he’s completely out of sight to start walking in the direction of Ben’s place.  
You sometimes chide yourself for being so paranoid. The chance of that man simply being a slimy creep is higher than of him being a psychotic stalker. You shake your head and roll your eyes, walking briskly toward Ben’s; it may be sunny and warmer than it usually is, but you didn’t bring a jacket with you, and the tall buildings are casting cool and unwelcome shadows across the pavement on which you walk, making you slightly more chilled than you appreciate.  
You reach his driveway quickly enough and grab your keys out of your pocket, unlocking your door and sliding in. On the way to the store you jump between stations, trying to stumble upon a catchy, upbeat song or two on the radio—and when you don’t, you tune in to your fallback station and listen to a melting pot of popular music, your mind wandering the whole while.  
You think momentarily about only buying enough groceries for the next few days, in case you leave the flat, but you pay the rent and utilities. If anyone leaves tonight it won’t be you. So you decide to get food for the next two weeks like you usually do.  
As you drive, scenarios are reeling through your head. Ones of Logan shouting and throwing things across the apartment; of him holding you like he used to, running his fingers through your hair while you watch movies; of you hitting him for ever hurting you and giving up on you; of the two of you loving each other’s bodies gently and passionately until the morning sun peeks through your windows.  
You growl audibly, smacking your hand against your steering wheel after you pull into a parking space. You have to stop thinking about this; you’re going to wear yourself thin and get yourself worked up before you even get home again. You need to take your mind off him before you go crazy. Well, you haven’t called your mom yet, so you resolve to do that now.  
The phone goes to voicemail and you call again right after, walking briskly into the grocery store.  
She answers on the third ring. “Hey, honey! Sorry I didn’t answer the first time; I was doing the dishes.” Her voice washes away the worries rattling around in your brain, if only temporarily.  
“It’s fine. What are you up to? Besides dishes, I mean.”  
“Not much more. Just doing a little Spring Cleaning.”  
“Mom, it’s summer.” You put your purse in a cart and stroll into the produce section.  
“It’s never too early to get a head start.” You can hear clanging in the background. She’s probably putting away everything she’s washed.  
“If you say so.” Tomatoes. You need tomatoes. There’s a small selection, and an even smaller one of organic and home-grown produce. Some people think it’s silly, but you like the idea of less pesticides and more care going into the food you eat.  
“What are you doing anyway? I hear people in the background.”  
“I’m getting groceries. Haven’t gotten a chance to shop before today. What should I make for dinner tomorrow night? I want something really good.”  
“Well, I don’t know. What do you want?”  
“Something with rice, I think.”  
“Chicken continental.” You can hear it in her voice that she’ll offer no other suggestions. She put in her effort, and that’s that; Mom has always hated picking out meals for you. ‘It stopped being my job when you learned to cook,’ she always says.  
“Actually that sounds pretty good. I forget all I’ll need for it though. Chicken, rice, chicken broth, green beans…” You trail off, wracking your brain for information.  
“Cream of chicken soup, not the broth. You’ll also need mushrooms and butter.”  
“Right, right. I don’t know why always try to use broth.” You pick up your favorite brand of romaine lettuce and toss it in the cart and head to find some mushrooms.  
“So,” you ask as you walk to the bread aisle after grabbing a box of button mushrooms. “How’s Lucy?”  
“She and John are doing very well. She’s gotten settled into the new office, and he’s selling cars like it’s nobody’s business.”  
“Wait, when did the office move?” You grab a loaf of crusty bread and put it on top of your purse to keep it from getting crushed.  
“When it got bought out by that new company, Ocean Dental, I think it’s called.”  
Lucy is a dental hygienist who loves her job almost as much as she loves her family.  
“When did that happen?” You stop short in the aisle to avoid bumping carts with another shopper.  
“About two months ago.”  
“No one told me about it before now.” You make a right turn and head toward the deli.  
“Must have slipped our minds. Speaking of that: Brinley lost her first tooth last week!”  
Your niece Brinley is three and a half feet of gentle temperament and big smiles.   
“Oh, really?” You smile at the thought of her beaming up at you with a front tooth gone.  
“Yeah, one of her front teeth. She was so excited about it, too—kept rambling about it all week to anyone who would listen.” Mom chuckles out loud. “She even walked up to a stranger in Starbucks a couple of days ago—actually tugged on his pants—and pointed to her mouth and told him she got a dollar from the tooth fairy for taking good care of her teeth.”  
You laugh loudly and shake your head. “Man, I miss her.” You start browsing the different meats behind the counter.  
“She’s getting so big, too. And she talks about you all the time.”  
You smile widely. “Aww, I can’t wait to see her again!”  
“Neither can she. Every other day I hear ‘When’s Aunt Pru coming back?’ And every other week I say ‘When it’s Mommy’s birthday.’ Then all you hear from her is how it’s going to be Mommy’s birthday soon, and then Auntie Prudence will come see her.”  
“Just a couple more months and I will be.” You look to the attendant behind the glass barricade. “Can I get some of this turkey, please? Shaved, if you will.”  
“And she can’t wait for it, let me tell you.” Mom sighs and then groans, commenting on her sore feet and how comfortable her new couch is.  
“You got another new one already?”  
“Yeah. Gave the last one to Luce and John—they were in the market for a new set, so I gave ‘em mine.”  
“Well, that was nice of you.”  
“Sure, sure. It also gave me a reason to shop for new furniture.”  
You can practically hear the pleased smile creep across her face. Your mom is nothing if not a shop-aholic cleaning machine.  
“I have no idea how you keep money in your pocket when you shop like that.”  
“Marcel takes good care of me.”  
Your step-dad, Marcel, owns a car shop in LA and loves it almost as much as he loves your mother.  
The man behind the counter hands you your meat. You thank him and head to grab ingredients for dinner tomorrow.  
“Obviously, if he buys you two whole living room sets within a year of each other.”  
She sighs wistfully. “He really is something though, isn’t he?”  
You smile to yourself, happy to hear your mom so content. “I think you’ve struck gold with this one.”  
“He reminds me every day,” she chuckles. “So how’s Logan? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”  
“Oh, he’s fine,” you lie. The relaxed, worry-free feeling is gone and now there’s a weight in your chest. “He’s at work now. Probably sucking up to a pretentious client, making the firm more money.”  
Your mother laughs, and though your worries about your boyfriend have resurfaced, her laughter once again gives you that welcome, if only fleeting, sense of joy.  
“If it keeps food on the table, that’s what matters.”  
“I’m the one that puts the food on the table. His schmoozing pays for our cars and the internet,” you argue playfully as you walk to the checkout.  
“Ah, you know what I meant. Anyway, I have to finish these dishes and do some more laundry. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”  
“Sure. Love you, Mom.”  
“Love you too, sweetheart. Tell Logan I said hello!”  
“As soon as I see him,” you promise.  
“Alright. Bye-bye.”  
The rest of your shopping is short-lived and thankfully the queue was short enough to have you out the door and in your car within thirty minutes.   
You sit quietly in your vehicle for a bit, basking in your own subdued misery and anxiety, flipping once again through the stations on the radio. Nothing good is on. Nothing good is ever on when you need it most. Instead of futilely changing channels for the entire drive home, you decide to put the Ipod your mother sent for Christmas to some use and connect it to your radio so you can listen to good music on your own terms. Within minutes, Nirvana is reverberating fully and satisfactorily in your ears and you drive home humming in time with the music.  
Maybe today won’t go so badly, you think to yourself.  
Maybe it will, a cruel worry replies.  
We can work it out. We always do.  
There’s a first time for everything. Today might be the day it all falls apart. You can hear the cynical voice in your head sneering at you.   
But I love him. I can’t give him up.  
Has he ever really loved you?  
It’s quite obvious that thinking about the immediate future is an exercise in self-wallowing.  
Best not to think about it before you become angry and petulant.  
You pull into your driveway, steeling yourself. You’re going to finish the day as if nothing is wrong. You’re going to do laundry and clean the kitchen if it takes all of your self-control.  
And boy, does it.  
The only thing you want to do is sit down and watch sad movies until Logan gets home and then tell him how much you love him and don’t want to leave. Instead, you monotonously wash the clothes and put them in the dryer, trying to empty your mind of lingering anxiety.  
Finally, after a horribly vivid day dream in which Logan tries to kick you out of the house, you scold yourself.  
“If Frodo can make it to Mount Doom, then I can make it through one bloody afternoon!”  
“What?”  
You spin around on the spot, your heart in your throat. “Oh my god, Logan. You scared the hell out of me.”  
Logan is standing in front of you, looking as confused as you are startled.  
“What were you saying about Frodo?” he repeats.  
You shake your head, ignoring the question. “What are you doing home so early?” It couldn’t be even four-thirty. He’s not off work until six every night.  
“Phil sent me home. Said I didn’t look well, whatever that means.”  
You look him over once more. “You do look a bit peaky. Did you eat something bad?”  
“I feel fine! I’m not sick; I don’t know what everyone’s going on about.”  
You shrug. “I’m just saying that I kind of see where he’s coming from. Anyway,” you pause, suddenly hyper-aware of where this conversation will eventually lead and decide that you aren’t ready for that. “How was work before you left?”  
“It was a joke. Everyone that walks into that building is a gold-digging idiot. I had a barrister tell me today that we owe his client thirty thousand pounds because of a bleeding collision—that was the fault of his own client, mind you—that caused his car less than four grand’s worth of damage.”  
“Where’d he get the idea that you’d pay that much for it?”  
“Thinks he can take us for Pain and Suffering. The bloody thing was his fault anyway—pain and suffering, my arse. He’s got minor whiplash and his blinker and paint job are shite now. Thirty thousand—nothin’ but a fuckin’ felcher, he is.”  
You raise your eyebrows and try to stifle your smile. When Logan is angry with you, nothing could be less amusing, but it’s a different story when he’s complaining about work. He gets a slightly crazed look in his eye and he tousles his hair more than usual. You’re always telling him that he’ll rip it out one day if he’s not careful.  
“So… good then.” You nod quickly and know that he can see the sarcasm etched into every line in your face.  
He grunts and walks through the door leading to the kitchen. You turn to put the last load of laundry into the dryer and lean against it. Your heart already feels lighter. You can’t remember the last time he talked so enthusiastically—albeit rather angrily—about work to you. This is a good sign. Maybe you can salvage something after all.  
You tap your fingertips against the top of the dryer as you contemplate how to start this dreadful conversation.  
He’s talking more freely, so demanding his attention or using an otherwise aggressive tactic might cause him to shut down. Appearing too timid might allow him the upper hand.  
You’re still sifting through your inner debate when he pops back in the door frame.  
“Come on, then. Are we doing this or not?” His voice is firm, but not offensive.  
You’re startled out of your reverie and look at him confusedly. “Sorry, what?”  
“Are we talking this out or not?” he repeats.  
“Oh,” you start. He’s actually willing to do this. “Of course, yeah. In the living room, then?”  
He nods and exits once again, and this time you follow.  
You seat yourselves on the couch at opposite ends and face each other. Logan’s settled himself into a frankly uncomfortably-looking rigid position, whereas you lean against the squishy arm of the couch for a little support for your back.  
“So…” you begin.  
“Look—” he cuts you off. “I never meant for it to go like this, all right? I figured you would be so angry with me that you’d leave me or hurt me like I did you, so I tried to brace myself for it and it went too far.”  
“Well, that’s no excuse for what you’ve put me through. I’m in love with you, and I have been for a long time. You know me well enough to know that if I stick around, it means that I want to stay. I’m not so vindictive that I’d fuck someone else under your nose to get back at you.”  
“I know, Prudence. It’s just that I had something good with you and I mucked it up, so I was worried you’d leave. I’m not good at talking things out, so I kind of bottled it up and did what I could.”  
“What you did was convince me that you’d stopped loving me. I’ve sat around for months waiting for you to look at me the way you used to or to touch me without throwing me into a wall to shag me. This isn’t a relationship anymore; we’re just two angry flatmates who only interact long enough to fuck or fight. I can’t keep doing this.”  
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you intently with an expression suspiciously identical to remorse etched into ever pale line in his face. “Let’s start over, then.” He says abruptly.  
“We can’t just start over.”  
“Then we’ll go back to our last checkpoint—that’s to say, before I cheated. We’ll go on dates again and we’ll talk every day and I won’t have to worry so much about you leaving.”  
You look down at your interlaced fingers. “I don’t know, Logan. I don’t think it’ll work. We’ll still have all of our problems; we’ll only be pretending they don’t exist.”  
“It won’t be like that—not if we really work at it. You’re one of the best things I have right now, and I was stupid to have almost let you leave. I’ll work at it every day until we’re okay again.”  
He makes a really convincing argument, at any rate. You look at him, noticing that he’s even paler than he was when he got home.  
“I don’t think reverting back is going to work without some sort of space between us.”  
“I’ll move out for a week or two then. Whatever it takes, Rye.”  
This comment almost makes you cry. It’s been months since he’s called you by that name. He used to simply call you by your middle name, Riley, but at some point got tired of the extra syllable and simplified it.  
“Where would you go?” Your heart feels a little heavier knowing that as soon as he’s willing to work on things, you’re shoving him out the door.  
“I’ll stay with Tommy. I took him in when he needed it; it’s what brothers do.”  
“Are you sure about this, Logan? What if it doesn’t work?”  
“If it doesn’t work this time, then we can walk away on good terms.”  
It doesn’t sound foolproof by any means. “Well… alright. We can try it out. I have a condition or two, though.”  
He half smiles. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”  
“Firstly, you can’t keep skirting around me like I’m going to waltz out on you at any given moment. And secondly, if it starts to get bad again, we’re going to counselling.”  
He nods emphatically. “Absolutely. And, of course, I have a condition of my own.”  
“Don’t tell me I can’t hang out with Ben. That’s not happening.”  
He shakes his head dismissively and looks you in the face, his complexion a little healthier than before.  
“You have to sleep with someone else.”  
It takes a minute for this to sink in, and all the while you’re watching him suspiciously.  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
“For this to work, I need you to sleep with another man.”  
“How in the hell is that supposed to make this work?!” You’re glaring at him now, more out of confusion and lack of understanding than actual anger.  
“Because if I know that you’ve already leveled the playing field, I won’t keep wondering when you will.”  
“That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard!”  
“It’s my condition! I’ll stop being so anxious about it if I know you’ve gone and done it already.”  
“No, I’m not doing that. It’s a stupid idea.”  
“Then I can pack my things and be out by tomorrow.”  
“You’re fucking joking. You can’t possibly expect me to sleep with someone else when I’m in a relationship with you. I love you. I’m not doing that.”  
“Fine. Then while I’m out of the house, we’ll be on a break. You have to sleep with one person during that time, and I’m not coming back until you do.”  
“This is ridiculous, Logan. Be realistic.”  
“I’m being quite realistic, thank you, and would appreciate it if you’d just agree to my terms so we can move on from this.”  
“Who the hell am I supposed to sleep with? I don’t know anyone else!”  
“Anyone but Benedict. I don’t care. One-night stand, long-term friend, old boyfriend—I don’t give a damn. But you only get one, and you only get the time we’re apart.”  
“What you mean more than one night?!” You glare at him, completely scandalized.  
“Sure, I had more than one night, didn’t I? So you get more than one as well.”  
“So this is your deal? I fuck someone else a couple of times and you come back and we work on our relationship?”  
He nods again. “Yep.”  
“Fucking ridiculous. I’m not your whore to prostitute out whenever you need to feel better about your life.”  
“No, you’re not. You’re my girlfriend and I’m giving you the power to even things out. Whether or not you wield that power is up to you, but I won’t be around until you have.”  
He stood, brushed his hands down his thighs to straighten his pants, and strode over to kiss you on the forehead.  
“You can do it. I’m giving you free reign for two weeks.”  
You stared at a point to the left of his wrist, feeling—and probably looking—quite petulant.  
“I’m going to pack up what I need for the week. I’ll come by later to get the rest.”  
You nod once, still refusing to look at him.  
He’s gone as quickly as he appeared, and you’re left with a new feeling in your heart. You’re officially single as of two minutes ago, and you don’t like that. What’s worse is now you have to find someone to shag if you want to get back with your boyfriend.  
Or… You can just find someone at the bar and take a photo or two with him and send them to Logan. He doesn’t have to know that you didn’t actually sleep with him. That could work out just fine.  
You smile to yourself as you walk upstairs to put on more makeup. You’ll have to be to the bar soon, and the patrons love when you look like a rock star rather than a “boring, down-to-earth bird,” as one of your regulars has once put it.  
You text Ben and tell him that you’ll swing by on your way to work to pick up your things so you won’t have to wake him on your way home.  
\--Don’t worry about it. I’ll come by tonight and bring them to you.  
\--Oh, great. Thank you. I’ll see you after a bit then.  
\--Of course.  
You change into a crimson tank top and some denim cut-off shorts, pausing momentarily when your phone buzzes.  
You open your inbox, expecting Ben to have written back. It’s from Logan.  
\--Just so you know, I’ll need hard evidence that you’ve shagged someone. I won’t just take your word for it. You’re too righteous for me to believe you’d actually do it without encouragement.  
\--What kind of proof could I possibly give you? I’m not making a video.  
It takes him a very long time to respond.  
\--I can watch a movie downstairs the night you do it.  
\--That’s heinous. You’re not going to push me into this and then wriggle your way in as a voyeur to boot.  
\--I won’t be watching. Just downstairs minding my own business while you hold your end of the bargain.  
You’re incensed when you reply.  
\--Fine.  
“I hope he’s a better shag than you. And I hope you hate yourself for your decision!” you shout at your phone.  
This just got a whole lot harder. How are you supposed to do this? Do you even really want to? Is Logan worth the trouble or should you just drop it completely?  
“Whatever. I’ll figure it out later.” You notice that your not-boyfriend has a way of making you mutter to yourself like a maniac, and that just makes you angrier.  
You tuck your phone into your shorts’ pocket, slip on your flats again, and head out the door, hoping that tonight would be busy enough to keep your mind off your monstrous issue.


End file.
